3rd Annual 25 Days of Hurt Sam
by Center of the Galaxy
Summary: A collection of holiday hurt!Sam stories based on prompts. Requests are CLOSED! Updated daily. Final Chapter: Charlie invites the boys to the annual LARP Winter Ball. What can go wrong? A lot of things actually.
1. Chance Encounters

_**Author's Note:**_ _It's that time of year! It always comes faster and faster each year. Welcome to the "3_ _rd_ _Annual 25 Days of Hurt Sam"! What is this, you ask? Have a Christmas plot bunny bouncing around in your head? Have the perfect holiday themed story idea, but no time to write it? You're in the right place. From the end of November until after the New Year, I will be writing holiday-themed prompts as a gift to all of you! I know last year, due to a death of a friend, I wasn't able to finish the 2_ _nd_ _Annual collection (if you have a prompt there and are still waiting for it, I've started updating there again) but this year, I'm confident that I'll be able to finish everything._

 _So, let's get some ground rules out of the way, shall we? This collection is based on prompts you submit. To submit a prompt, simply leave it in a review. I do not have PM turned on so do not PM me. Prompts can consist of a word (ex: Snowman) or a phrase (ex: Sam always loved seeing snowflakes first thing in the morning) or even a situation (ex: It's Charlie's first Christmas after losing her mother. Sam decides to surprise her, but manages to get her and him trapped in a cave during a snowstorm. Sam gets hypothermia and it's up to Charlie to take care of him and get them both out)_

 _In order for your prompt to be accepted, you must follow the following rules:_

 _I am a gen author._ _ **I do not write slash of any kind.**_ _Sorry! I do write canon pairings though._

 _ **I do not accept M-rated prompts.**_ _Nothing about rape or extreme torture, etc._

 _ **Sam must be hurt in this story.**_ _You can specify what kind of hurt you'd like him to endure (ex: drowning) or you can leave it up to me. Either way, Sam will be getting the brunt of the damage and someone else will be taking care of him._

 _ **Please do not submit multiple prompts.**_ _I want to write as many stories for as many different people as I can. If you change your mind and submit another prompt, I will ignore your earlier one and go with latest one._

 _ **Your prompt must have something to do with the Holidays.**_ _This is a Holiday collection so your prompt must be related to that. Pick any aspect of this time of year and make your prompt revolve around that._

 _ **Prompts are fulfilled on a first come, first serve basis.**_ _I will also be closing prompts at the end of November to make sure I finish in time for Christmas._

 _I hope you guys will enjoy this collection just as much as I will enjoy writing it. To get it started, here's a scenario I've always wanted, set during Sam and Jessica's first Christmas at Stanford. Enjoy!_

* * *

" _It must have been the mistletoe_

 _The lazy fire, the falling snow_

 _The magic in the frosty air_

 _That made me love you!"_

— _Barbra Streisand, "It Must Have Been the Mistletoe"_

* * *

Jessica Moore wiped the sweat off her brow as she finished scrubbing the last table. The café was quiet at this time of night; more so since most of her fellow student had already left to go home for the Winter Break. Three days before Christmas and she was really the only one here, save Maria who would stay for the rest of the night shift and Louis, who was listening to Bing Crosby's _White Christmas_ as he rolled out his pie dough.

"You got plans for Christmas, Jess?" Maria asked softly as she turned up the jukebox. Barbra Streisand's silky voice filtered in the room, soft as an angel.

"Me?" Jessica smiled softly. Christmas time always made her feel more nostalgic. Maybe it was because she was still a freshmen, recalling memories from Christmases gone by when she spent them with her best friends and her family. Now, she was alone at this school, though by choice. Her mother had invited her to come home, but Jessica had been determined to try and make it on her own. She wanted to have that experience, of her first college Christmas away from home.

Now though, alone and working, she did sort of regret it.

"Jess?" Maria tried again, the older co-worker frowning somewhat as she tucked a strand of her chestnut hair behind her ear.

"No plans." Jessica answered quickly, placing the rag aside.

"Oh, well, you could come home with me, if you wish—"

The door jingled and Jessica immediately turned her head to see a tall young man with floppy brown hair walking in. He took a seat in one of the corner booths; his back to the wall and Jessica swore that she knew him from somewhere.

"You want me to take this?" Maria questioned, gesturing to the young man. "Your shift is almost done—"

"I've got it." Jessica replied with a grin. She moved towards the young man and pulled out her notepad. "I'm Jessica, and I'll be taking your order."

"Coffee please." He answered and his voice was strained, his brow furrowed. He has dozens of books spread out over the table and Jessica can't really make out what language he's reading in. It looked like, maybe, Latin?

"Cream and sugar?"

"No thanks."

"Pulling an all-nighter?" She inquired, somewhat curious.

He met her gaze, hazel eyes vibrant and so clear, before glancing back at his work, "Something like that."

"You go to school at Stanford?" She felt compelled to keep talking to him, though she didn't know why. His eyes, maybe? The calming aura he seemed to project?

"Yes." He flipped a page of his book.

"Me too," She said softly before turning to go grab and a mug and the coffee pot. She filled it to the brim and then flashed a dazzling grin at him. "You have a good night."

Her shift was up and she needed to get home and feed her roommate's cat. Still, if she could, she'd stay.

There was something about this no-name stranger.

She just couldn't quite put her finger on it.

* * *

It was Christmas Eve when he she saw him again.

Maria had begged her to cover the night shift and Jessica, who had no good excuse to give, reluctantly agreed. She did need the money to pay for rent and Maria did have a boyfriend that she wanted to spend time with.

Who was Jessica to refuse?

So here she was, scrubbing tables and humming "Jingle Bells" under her breath as Louis continues to cook.

The doorbell rung and she glanced up, seeing the same man from a few nights ago. He limped in, skin pale and breath ragged. He slowly got to the booth and sat down, exhaling shakily.

"You doing okay?" She asked softly, giving him a cup of coffee.

"Fine." He gritted his teeth.

"You really don't look fine." She insisted. Then, seeing his shirt sticking to his left side, her eyes widened in shock. "Is that . . . is that blood?"

A few crimson drops had fallen onto the cushion.

"Don't freak out." He ordered sharply.

"Freak out?" She echoed. "Why on Earth would I freak out just because you're bleeding out in my booth on Christmas Eve?" She couldn't prevent the hint of hysteria from entering her tone.

"It's not that bad." He assured her, voice fading as his eyes fell shut for a few seconds.

"Hey, hey, stay with me." She gripped his shoulder and his eyes flew open. She used her pen to lift up the edge of his shirt and nearly gagged at the sheer sight of the jagged tears in his flesh and the blood leaking out. If she didn't know any better, She would've said that it looked like someone had taken a bite out of him.

"Don't freak out." He slurred.

"You need to go to the hospital."

"M'fine." He slumped over in the booth, going limp and unconscious.

"Hey." She shook him a bit; he didn't so much as flinch. "Hey!" Blood was flowing more steadily now and though she was an English major, she knew that only meant bad things.

And in that moment, Jessica Moore knew exactly what she had to do.

* * *

The waiting room of the E.R. was much too chilly, especially for December. Under the fluorescent lights of the lobby, Jessica did her best not to shiver in her jeans and t-shirt.

"Miss Moore?" A young nurse with a brilliant smile and gingerbread scrubs stood before her. "You brought in the young man with lacerations?"

"Yes." She rose from her chair. "Is he okay?"

"Fine," The nurse replied. "In fact, if you'd like to see him, he's right this way. He's your boyfriend, right?"

Jessica Moore was raised not to lie. Lying was, after all, wrong, but her mother had also taught her that sometimes, there were exceptions to this rule. Saying she was the girlfriend of a man she'd saved just to make sure she could see him and make sure he was all right seemed like a good exception.

"Of course." She lied.

"Right this way then."

She led her down twisting corridors until finally stopping in front of a brown door. The nurse pushed it open and motioned for Jessica to go in.

"Hey." The young man greeted, voice raspy.

"Hi." She wasn't sure whether to take a seat next to him or not. "I just wanted to make sure you were, you know, okay."

He smiled, brightly, warmly, and it made her stomach do somersaults.

"So." He started.

"So." She echoed. "Well, I guess I should go—"

"Jessica, wait." It was the first time he said her name; she froze in the doorway. "Could you . . . would you stay for a bit?"

"Yeah," She told him quickly, coming to sit in the chair. "Of course."

"My name is Sam, by the way." He tacks on and she chuckles. Funny, it only took a hospital run for her to get his name.

"Hi Sam."

A clock chimes 12 down the hall.

"Merry Christmas."

He grins and years later, when Maria asks her how she fell in love with Sam Winchester, this will be the moment Jessica tells her about.

"Merry Christmas, Sam."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I'm such a sucker for Sam/Jessica stories. Well, I hope you guys enjoyed! I look forward to seeing what kind of prompts you guys submit. I'll update again towards the end of this month and give you all a heads up as to when I'll be closing prompts. I will also be posting the prompt rules on my profile. Happy Holidays everyone!_


	2. Invisible

_**Author's Note:**_ _Last call for prompts! They will be closed on December 1st_ _! I look forward to writing all of them. They are super fun! Here's the first one from oooPENNYWISEooo_ _who asked for, "Sam tries to decorate the bunker with some old decorations he found, only to realize a cursed object is among the ornaments." I set this in early season 8, post "LARP and the Real Girl". Thank you so much for this awesome prompt. It was really fun to write. Happy Holidays everyone! Let the barrage of Holiday Hurt!Sam commence!_

* * *

" _There is an ornament_

 _Lost inside the night_

 _There on a Christmas tree_

 _With a thousand lights."_

— _Trans-Siberian Orchestra, "Ornament"_

* * *

The bunker held many secrets.

From the twisting corridors that led to rooms undiscovered, to the sheer amount of lore that were on the countless bookshelves—there were new things to discover every day. Sam could probably weeks combing every inch of the place and still discover new things later.

But with Christmas closing in, he had only one thing on his mind—decorations. He had to make Christmas special for Dean. It was no surprise that their relationship had been somewhat strained over the preceding months and while they had started repairing their relationship, Sam wanted to do something special for his older brother. Something to make him smile, make him laugh and get rid of some that burden he carried around on his shoulders.

One night to just forget everything grave and have a normal Christmas.

And normal needed Christmas decorations; something that Sam was sure the previous owners had stored somewhere. After all, they packed everything away in boxes and if they kept things as obscure as "scrolls from 5th century Greece", Christmas decorations had to be somewhere. Finding them would be tricky, but the youngest Winchester was up to the challenge.

If it were for Dean, he could do anything, after all.

* * *

And find them, he did.

In a box pushed towards the back corner of a closet in one of the numerous hallways, Sam found the old wooden box full of colorful tinsel and glass snow globes and even, at the very bottom of the box, an ornate ornament, golden and round with sparkles in the shape of a snowflake. As Sam picked it up and held it in his hand, he felt a jolt through his system, an almost electric shock.

"Weird." He remarked and then, without giving it a second thought, he put it back in the box and grinned, ideas for decorating swirling in his mind's eye.

Dean would be thrilled.

* * *

By the time Sam was done with it, the bunker was decorated like something out of a Hallmark movie. From the picture perfect tinsel on the bannister of the stairs, to the crackling of wood burning fire where stockings were hung on the mantel—it was so picturesque.

"Sam?" Dean's voice boomed as the front door shut and Sam couldn't help but grin.

"In here!" Sam called, positioning himself to the side of the fireplace so as to not obstruct his older brother's view.

"Sam?" Dean sauntered into the room, the Impala's keys dangling from his fingers.

"What do you think?" Sam inquired, unable to contain his excitement. Dean had to love it—Sam knew he loved it—but he couldn't wait to see his older brother's grin light up his face.

Instead, Dean's brows furrowed.

"Sam?" Dean questioned.

"What?" Sam interjected. "You don't like it?" The youngest Winchester glanced at the decorations. Was it too much? Maybe he had gone a little overboard, but Dean loved that.

"Sam, you here?" Dean called, a tinge of worry in his voice.

"Right here," Sam replied grouchily. "If you don't like it, you could just say so—"

"Sammy!" Dean yelled, moving down the hall. "Sam, where are you?"

"Dean, I'm right here!" Sam shouted, reaching out for his older brother, "Why can't you—?"

His hand went right through Dean's shoulder, like it had never existed.

"What?" He held his hand up to his face. It appeared normal but as soon as he reached for his brother again, his hand went right through.

"Sammy!" His older brother continued his search, unaware of the youngest Winchester's plight. "Sammy, where the hell are you?"

Sam Winchester was a ghost, trapped in the bunker.

* * *

As his brother continued to search for him, Sam did the only thing he could think of—research. He was obviously under some sort of spell or enchantment. He hadn't died—he hoped—or been on a hunt with a witch recently, so that left a few other things.

A hex bag for one, or a cursed object of some sort.

He had to retrace his steps and figure out what exactly had gone wrong. If he did that, he could hold the panic at bay. He could figure this out—he would figure this out—and once he did, he would finally get to relax with his big brother.

Time to start back the beginning.

* * *

"Dammit."

Of course, of course, it would be the Christmas ornament. The weird tingle, the otherworldly glow of it in the firelight—all trademark signs that he'd been holding a cursed object.

"I'm an idiot."

Dean had left, taken the Impala on a quest to go find his little brother, completely unaware of Sam's plight.

Which left Sam to destroy the ornament. Should be easy, for once, all Sam had to do was grab the ornament and break it—

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." A silky voice purred.

Sam spun around to see a pale woman in an ethereal blue gown. A garland of roses was in her chestnut hair and as she grinned at him with peach lips, he couldn't help but wonder what kind of creature he was seeing. She was barefoot and the bottom of her dress floated upwards, hovering an inch or two above the ground.

"Hello, Sam Winchester."

"Who are you?" He growled, ready to fight her should the situation warrant it.

"I'm a spirit." She answered, curtsying.

"A ghost?"

"A spirit," She repeated, "Of Christmas."

"Like a _Christmas Carol_?" Sam scoffed.

"That ornament," She pointed to it behind him, "It summoned me to you."

"It trapped me here." Sam snapped.

"You are not trapped," She insisted softly, "I just wish to help you."

"Help me with what?" He pressed and she laughed, the sound of it like soft bells.

She reached forward and the ornament flew to her hand. It began to glow, the snowflakes on it shining so brightly that it blinded the youngest Winchester's eyes.

"I shall help you." Her voice rang out and Sam flinched, covering his ears and closing his eyes as he was consumed by it all.

And then there was darkness.

* * *

He was a baby in his mother's arms and she was humming the faint traces of a Christmas carol under her breath. She laughed and held him tight and whispered that it was probably too early for that, but she continued to hum anyways. Dean stood next to her, asking if it was his turn to hold his baby brother.

He was five years old at Bobby's standing in front of a glowing Christmas tree as the gruff hunter handed him a wrapped present, much to Sam's delight. Dean stood at Bobby's side, bragging about how he helped pick the gift out.

He was ten and in a motel room with Dean by his side, opening newspaper wrapped presents and thinking it was the best thing in the world.

He was 14 and furious with his father for choosing a hunt over having Christmas. But Dean was there, reassuring him with kind words and a slice of peppermint chocolate pie and somehow, that made it better.

He was 19 and alone in his freezing dorm room, but blissfully normal. He missed his brother.

He was 20 and Jessica was in his arms as the snow fell outside and her parents asked him if he wanted more hot chocolate. It was everything he ever wanted as a kid, but there was still a piece missing.

He was going to lose Dean to Hell, but as they drank spiked eggnog, he could fool himself into thinking they had more time.

Faster and faster the memories spun around him, Christmas being the common theme between them all.

* * *

"You see now?" The spirit questioned as Sam snapped back to reality. His head spun as the images faded.

"See what?" He inquired as a headache continued building, pressure burning in his temple.

"You see." She nodded, smiling.

"Are you going to help me or not?" He hissed, head throbbing.

"I have," She murmured, grinning. The ornament glowed faintly in her hands. "Merry Christmas, Sam."

And then, she faded away.

* * *

"Sam!"

Sam opened his eyes, sitting up on the couch, the lights burning his eyes.

"In here."

Dean rushed into the room, sighing in relief as he caught sight of his little brother.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean snapped, kneeling down next to the couch, his hand gripping Sam's shoulder. His brother's face was gaunt and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"I don't know." Sam confessed softly. "How long has it been?"

"Three days."

Sam's gaze widened and he echoed, "Three days?"

"Are you okay? What happened?" Dean questioned urgently.

"There was a spirit in an ornament," Sam began, trying to put the pieces together, "And she wanted to help me."

"Help you do what?" Dean asked.

The memories flashed through his mind and Sam couldn't help but smile.

"What?" His brother pressed.

Sam simply pulled his brother into hug and grinned.

"Thanks, Dean."

"For what?" Dean asked.

But Sam didn't answer, just held his brother instead. Sure, his head burned and ached and he wanted nothing more than to take two Advil, but in that moment, all that mattered was that his brother was here with him.

And that was the greatest Christmas present of all.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Send in your last minute prompts now. They close tomorrow, December 1_ _st_ _. I hope you guys enjoyed this first chapter! I look forward to filling all your prompts. Please review if you have a moment._


	3. Mute

_**Author's Note:**_ _And prompts are_ _ **closed**_ _! So, just to answer a quick question, yes, you too can make your own hurt!character collection based off of what I did (i.e. asking for holiday themed prompts and then writing chapters off of them). In fact, I'm pretty sure there are other authors doing collections like that and not just during the Holidays. As long as you don't copy my work, you don't need to ask my permission to do a 25 Days of Hurt!Cas or whatever character you may fancy. The more the merrier, right? Anyways, as for me, I will stick to Hurt!Sam and all the awesome prompts I've received._

 _Speaking of which, today's prompt comes from_ _ **NeutralShooter**_ _who asked for, "Sam overhears a conversation between Cas and Dean which leads him to believe that he is not wanted. He starts getting more and more detached from them because of this. Dean doesn't notice at first thinking it's just moodiness due to the holidays." One angsty, sad Sam coming up! I set this in early season five. **Trigger warning for some self-hate. If that bothers you, please do not read.** Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _Oh Santa may have brought you some stars for your shoes_

 _But Santa only brought me the blues_

 _Those brightly packaged tinsel covered Christmas blues."_

— _Holly Cole Trio, "Christmas Blues"_

* * *

Sam really should know better.

He isn't a little kid anymore. He really doesn't have an excuse to press his back against the wall and lean dangerously over the crack in the door to try and hear what the hushed voices in the room are trying to discuss. He really shouldn't be eavesdropping.

But how could he resist after Cas started acting so weird?

The angel had shown up agitated, ready to discuss something with the eldest Winchester, only to freeze when he saw Sam in the room. So, Dean, of course, had made up some excuse— _C'mon, Sam, it's almost Christmas and it's your turn to go get the chocolate peppermint pie!—_ and unceremoniously kicked the youngest Winchester out. Sam had gotten the pie, of course, but he'd rushed through it and now, he is sneakily trying to figure out just what secret topic could not be discussed in front of him.

"—a liability, Dean." The angel's voice is tinged with a barely contained fury that made all of the syllables he spoke clear and sharp.

"This is Sam, we're talking about!" Dean retorts, "My brother knows what he's doing."

"Really?" Castiel's voice drops, "And how long do you think Sam can hold out against Lucifer?"

That makes Sam's blood run cold.

He knows that the angel wasn't really a fan of his, but since Cas had rebelled, the younger brother thought they'd been getting closer. But judging from the venom in Castiel's tone, that isn't the case.

"Sam is strong—" Dean interjects.

"Not strong enough," Castiel replies softly, "And we both know that if your life were in danger, he would say yes."

There's a long moment of silence and then a sigh.

"I know," Dean tells him, "And we can't allow that to happen."

"No," The angel concurs, "We cannot."

"But I'm not—"

"Sam needs to go," Castiel states frankly. "He can't stay here."

Sam staggers away from the door and finds the air in the room syrupy. He realizes in that moment that he can't stay there in front of the door. He needs to get out somehow.

He moves outside into the crisp and clear December night. They are in Wyoming of all places and though it was freezing, Sam can't help but notice how bright the stars are. From their perch in the black sky, they are almost as bright as the full moon, which illuminates the nearly deserted parking lot of their motel.

Castiel wants him to go.

Castiel views him as a liability.

And worst of all, Dean agrees with him.

Sam's a screw up after all.

Letting his head fall into his hands, Sam Winchester does his best not to fall apart.

* * *

"What's with you?" Dean asks the next morning at breakfast. They're at a diner down the road from their motel and his older brother is, as usual, devouring a hearty and greasy breakfast consisting of eggs, waffles and way too much bacon.

"What do you mean?" Sam, for his part, picks at his scrambled eggs and forces himself to take a bite.

"You haven't said a word since yesterday." Dean points out, almost accusatory.

"So?" The younger brother presses.

"So, penny for your thoughts?" The eldest Winchester asks.

Sam doesn't reply.

"It's almost Christmas." Dean remarks, baiting his brother. After all, it's no secret that they love this time of year. Even when their father would drag them out on hunts, they would always take Christmas off. That was a day to just be with each other and play at being normal.

"Yeah." Sam takes a bite of his eggs. They taste like ash in his mouth.

"What do you want for Christmas?"

Sam shrugs.

"Dude, what is with you?" Dean tries once more, but it's to no avail.

Sam just doesn't answer and they spend the rest of the meal in awkward silence.

* * *

Sam finds himself retreating further and further into the dark recesses of his mind. Seeing his older brother with the angel hurts for so many reasons, though mainly, it's because they both think he's a ticking time bomb. And why shouldn't they? When has he ever proved them otherwise?

He really should just go—leave, like Castiel wanted—but he's a coward. He doesn't want to be alone in this cold, dark, scary world. He wants his big brother there to assure him, to guide him.

So, he just withdraws from social interaction in general. He doesn't speak unless spoken to, he doesn't really do things unless asked—he's like a robot on autopilot, he supposes.

"You have the Christmas blues?" Dean means it somewhat as a joke, but Sam's seen the search history. According to Web MD, he could be sporting a case of the so-called "Christmas blues", but it's so much more than that.

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Dean calls him on it, "Sam, you can talk to me."

But Sam doesn't feel like talking.

Not anymore.

* * *

In fact, Sam just stops speaking.

What does his voice matter? What do his words matter? He knows how Dean and Castiel really feel and he has no right to contradict them. At the end of the day, he is the one responsibly for the coming apocalypse. It's all on his shoulders. It's his burden to bear and frankly, it's crushing him.

But, that's okay. He deserves to be crushed.

Dean, for his part, tries to get Sam to speak. He still pauses in his conversations; still makes eye contact with his brother in the hopes that Sam will say something—anything—but the youngest Winchester knows there's no point.

He's just a liability, after all.

"Sammy, please, talk to me." Dean's begging now and it's funny, the old Sam would've given in immediately upon seeing his older brother in such distress, but it barely fazes this Sam.

"Say something, Sam." Dean continues to urge, gripping his little brother's shoulder.

What should he say though? What would make his brother happy? Sorry that he's not good enough? Sorry that he let the apocalypse happen?

What are the magic words that Dean so desperately wants to hear?

"'Call me a jackass or something!" Dean continues. "Just tell me what's wrong so I can fix it, Sammy, okay?"

But there's nothing to fix.

Sam's is, after all, the problem.

* * *

It's Christmas Eve and he's grabbing the last carton of eggnog at the minimart down the way when he sees the gun being pointed at the terrified cashier. A robbery and with his luck, of course he gets caught in the middle of it.

"Please," The cashier, a young woman in her early 20's, is crying now, her mascara running down her face like a river. "Please, I have a family and a—"

"Give me all the money!" The man with the gun growls, though his hand is shaky, his trigger finger tensing unconsciously. He's just as nervous as the cashier and that makes him deadlier than the normal robber.

He really shouldn't get involved. He should call the cops, let them handle this rogue human, but the terror in the cashier's eyes stirs something within him. An emotion he's suppressed for so long—compassion.

And before he knows it, he's stepping in, putting himself in front of the cashier and the robber.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The robber turns the gun on him, but Sam isn't fazed. He nudges the young woman behind him, motions for her to leave.

She flees and Sam glowers at the would-be criminal.

"Fuck you man!"

There's a gunshot and dimly, Sam realizes that he's been shot.

"Oh shit," The robber panics, obviously not having intended to actually hurt someone. "Oh, shit, please don't die!"

There's blood rolling down the front of Sam's shirt and he registers pain as it burns through his skin. Being shot, he realizes, is very painful.

Sirens wail in the distance and Sam slumps to the floor, the room suddenly spinning around him. Funny, he'd never expected this is how he would end. He reaches for the carton of eggnog—the catalyst in all of this—and wonders how Dean will react.

Sam can't even get eggnog properly.

It figures.

"Sorry, Dean." He wheezes and his voice sounds rough even to his own ears. How long has it been since he last spoke? Weeks? Months? But he doesn't have time to dwell on that because the pain is gone and lethargy has taken its place and suddenly, all Sam wants to do is sleep.

So, he shuts his eyes and does.

* * *

The first thing he is aware of when he comes to is the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor. That doesn't sound like Hell, he thinks dimly. He begins to survey his surroundings and isn't surprised to find himself lying in a hospital bed. The fact that he's alive; however, is more than a bit surprising. He'd been shot in the chest, pretty close to the heart.

He should be dead right now.

"Sammy?" Dean is sitting in a chair by his bedside, his appearance gaunt, and his face haggard. His clothes are wrinkled, like he slept in them. There are dark circles under his eyes and he's got three o'clock shadow darkening his face.

"D'n." Sam manages to say and Dean beams, like the sun breaking through the sky on a cloudy day.

"I need you to listen to me very closely," His brother grips his wrist, holding firmly. "You are not a liability."

Sam's eyes widen.

"I know you heard what Cas and I were talking about, but Sammy, you need to believe me, I don't want you to go."

"But you said—"

"You didn't hear me finish!" Dean snaps impatiently. "I told Cas to shove it, Sam."

Sam balks at that.

"You are the most important thing to me, you understand? Dean's grip on Sam's wrist increases. "I need you to understand that, okay?"

The youngest Winchester nods.

"All this crap about Lucifer and the apocalypse," Dean plows on, "I don't care about any of it, Sam, not if it means losing you."

He means it, Sam can see that. There's a fire in his older brother's gaze that he hasn't seen since before the apocalypse. Dean is here, asking for Sam to trust him.

"I missed you." Sam says softly and Dean chuckles.

"Missed you too, Sammy," Then, tossing a jello cup at him, he smirks, "Now eat some food, would you?"

And for the time since this ordeal began, Sam laughs.

Sure, there are still unanswered questions and unresolved issues between them. They have to find a way to stop the apocalypse. Sam has to find a way to atone for the mistakes he made while under the influence of demon blood.

But right now, in this moment, he's just a little kid again, laughing at his older brother.

And that . . . that is priceless.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Super happy with how this came out! Hope you are too. Please review if you have a chance! Thanks so much!_


	4. Christmas Cookies

_**Author's Note:**_ _I want to thank you guys for all your kind words! Your comments always encourage me to keep writing and write better chapters! Thanks so much!_

 _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **Zana Zira**_ _who requested, "Only Sam would find a way to almost choke to death on a Christmas cookie." I would prefer it be set in Seasons 8-11, in the bunker, and if Cas could be worked in there somehow it would be great, but all I really need is that prompt right there and Dean helping Sam out of the situation." You got it! Let's set this in season 9, post "Road Trip" so spoilers for season 9. I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

" _Rocking around the Christmas Tree_

 _Let the Christmas Spirit Ring_

 _Later we'll have some pumpkin pie_

 _and we'll do some caroling."_

— _Brenda Lee, "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree"_

* * *

Only Sam would find a way to almost choke to death on a Christmas cookie.

But wait, Castiel is getting ahead of himself.

It's close to Christmas—a time for joy and rebirth—yet the angel can't help but find the atmosphere in the bunker to be less than jolly. For one thing, Dean is gone, taken off for parts unknown after saving his little brother once more, leaving Castiel to not only heal Sam physically, but also fix his broken psyche.

And for another thing, Kevin is dead.

The teenage prophet was an unfortunate casualty of a war he had never wanted to be apart of in the first place. How cruel the universe could be, the angel thinks, to force a teenager to play such a huge role and for what? Just for him to die horribly, painfully? What purpose did that serve in the grand scheme of things? How could he justify Kevin's death?

He can't of course and it breaks the angel's heart.

Yet, Kevin's presence is still acutely felt. His bedroom is just as the teenager left it, books and papers strewn over his desk, messy sheets and rumpled clothes and a variety of post-it notes from both Sam and Dean, reminding the teen about eating and taking breaks. There is a pen left next to a journal, as if the boy had intended to return to it as soon as he could.

But Kevin would not return.

Kevin is dead.

Grief is an odd human emotion, but one that he knows much too well. The longing for the presence of someone long gone, the split-second of relief when you first wake turning to dread as the memories assault you anew—yes, being around the Winchesters, he's had his fair share of encounters with grief.

In Heaven, there was no such concept of grief. An angel perishing was a cause for celebration, for they had achieved their well-deserved reward in eternity. Perhaps, he'd been naïve to believe that. In Heaven though, you didn't really make attachments to others like you did on Earth. Losing a comrade was nothing serious.

"Cas?" Sam's voice is hoarse, strained and the angel chides himself, quickly shutting Kevin's door behind him.

It is Sam who needs attention now. After all, the youngest Winchester is experiencing the debilitating symptoms of a forced exorcism. Not only that, but Kevin's death and Dean's betrayal has to be weighing on his mind.

"I am here."

He finds Sam slumped over on the dining room table, his head resting against the dark, glossy wooden surface. His cheeks are flushed—his body is still so weak, still broken from the Trials—and immediately, Castiel kneels next to him, placing two fingers against his friend's forehead.

"Cas, I . . ." Sam's voice trails off, but the angel can follow his gaze, can see how he's looking upstairs at the now shut door to Kevin's room. A mix of hurt and guilt clouds Sam's gaze and he bites his lower lip somewhat nervously. "Kevin—"

"You need your rest." Castiel remarks softly, willing his grace to mend Sam's broken body.

"But . . ." Sam's slurring his words now, exhaustion catching up to him.

"Rest, Sam." The angel commands, though not unkindly and immediately, Sam's eyes flutter shut.

And just like that, the youngest Winchester is asleep.

"Sam," He whispers, "I am sorry that I could not help you earlier."

During the Trials, he'd been useless to Sam, unable to help heal him. In fact, if Dean had listened to him, Sam would be dead right now, a casualty of Castiel's certainty that Naomi had been the traitorous angel, not Metatron.

How far they had all come since then.

So, for now, all Castiel can is watch over his injured friend and hope that some good could come out of this terribly messed up situation.

* * *

How they ended up making Christmas cookies is a bit of mystery though.

After three failed attempts to get ahold of Dean— _you can't avoid your brother forever, Dean, just come back, Sam needs you—_ the angel had turned to the television as a way of controlling his emotions. He couldn't allow Sam to exert himself by worrying over the angel's emotional state.

And that was how he ended up watching the cheesy goodness that is Hallmark's Countdown to Christmas.

Did the movies seem wildly implausible? Yes, but they were filled with such joy and hope that Castiel couldn't help but be drawn into them.

Hence the idea to make cookies.

"You want to make Christmas cookies?" Sam inquires, brow furrowed.

"Indeed," Castiel chirps happily. "I believe it is the time of year for such a feat."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam shrugs, chuckling softly. "Let me just see what we have."

The youngest Winchester marches into the kitchen, surveying the fridge as well as the cabinets. Slowly, he begins to pull out ingredients. First butter, then sugar, then flour, then eggs and so on and so forth.

"Sugar cookies okay?" Sam asks and Castiel nods his head enthusiastically, causing Sam to laugh boisterously. "You're so weird." He means it with affection though, causing a grin to break out on the angel's lips.

An hour later, they have two-dozen Christmas tree shaped sugar cookies.

"Here." Sam hands him a warm cookie. "They're always better when they're right from the oven."

Castiel may not be able to really use the food he consumes for energy, but ever since he was human, he does now appreciate food. The sugar cookie, for example, is warm and sweet, though not overly so.

"It's perfect." He comments as Sam takes a bite of his own.

Which led Castiel to this—watching Sam begin to choke on the cookie. Humans are, after all, so easily broken, so insanely fragile and their bodies could betray them at any moment.

Sam's skin is starting to turn blue when Castiel finally processes enough to spring into action only for—

"Easy, Sammy!"

Dean is there, his two fists encircling Sam's waist and then pushing into his little brother's skin until the bit of cookie comes dislodged and Sam is breathing again, coughing, but alive.

"I've got you." Dean assures his brother and Sam nods.

Castiel is just relieved.

"You came back." Sam murmurs and Dean beams.

"It's almost Christmas, Sammy. You think I'd leave you all alone on Christmas?"

Sam coughs a bit more and Dean begins to rub circles on his brother's back, trying to ease his discomfort.

"It's okay," Dean whispers, "Just breathe, Sammy."

Deciding he's no longer needed, the angel quietly walks away, giving the two brothers time to reconnect.

* * *

"Cas?"

"Dean."

The eldest Winchester has his duffel once more in his hand and guilt written all over his face.

Castiel grimaces as the pieces come together, "You are leaving again."

"Yeah."

It's 11pm on Christmas and Sam has long since been asleep. His condition has improved, partly due to Castiel's grace, but mostly due to the presence of his brother by his side.

"You should stay—" Castiel begins to protest, but Dean holds up his hand for silence.

"What happened to Kevin, what almost happened to Sam," He starts softly, "It's on me. I can't . . ."

Be here, Castiel completes, seeing firsthand the consequences of his choices.

With a pained smile, Dean adds, "Take care of Sam."

And then Dean Winchester is gone.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Wow, this one took on a life of it's own. A bit more bittersweet than I intended too. Well, I hope you guys enjoyed it. Please review if you have a moment! If not, see you tomorrow. Thanks!_


	5. Presents

_**Author's Note:**_ _I know I'm behind, sorry about that! Two chapters today to make up for missing yesterday and two tomorrow. First one comes up from_ _ **Leahelisabeth**_ _who requested, "I should like to prompt a Christmas with five-year-old Sammy and nine-year-old Dean. Sam gets taken by the MOTW and Dean and John and Bobby race to get him back before Christmas Eve. He can be hurt as badly as you like so long as he is not actually in the hospital for Christmas morning. John was so freaked out and is so grateful to have his boy back that he plans their first real Christmas celebration." This is such a fun prompt! So, pre-series, obviously, with lots of family feels coming up! Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _It's that time of year when the world falls in love_

 _Ev'ry song you hear seems to say "Merry Christmas,_

 _"May your New Year dreams come true"_

 _And this song of mine in three-quarter time_

 _Wishes you and yours the same thing, too."_

— _Frank Sinatra, "The Christmas Waltz"_

* * *

It happens in a split second.

That's what they always say on the news when reporting on child abduction. The crying parent always tells the same story—they took their eyes off little Johnny or Jenny for two-seconds and then boom, the child, their precious world, was gone.

John always shook his head at reports like these, glad that he was a step above other parents, happy that his boys were safer than all the other kids out there in the world. As a hunter, he's an expert at surveillance and he knows how to defend his family.

But now, as he stares across the empty field, panic bubbling up within him, he realizes now how easily it is to lose a child.

Sam is gone.

His baby boy, five years old and so damn smart, is gone, snatched away from his grasp without any warning.

All in the blink of an eye.

"Dad?" Dean tugs at his shirt, his brow furrowed, already so mature at just nine years old. His perfect little hunter in training, a fierce protector in his own right.

It's Christmas Eve and Sam is missing.

"Dad, it'll be okay." Dean assures him softly and John lets out a shaky breath. There's no point staying here in the field where Sam was taken. He needs to get out of here, needs to regroup and then he'll find the son of a bitch that took his baby boy.

After all, payback is a bitch.

"It's okay," He ruffles Dean's hair, tries to keep his hand steady, not show his fear or anger. "We'll get him back."

* * *

"What were you hunting?" Bobby questions in a gruff tone, flipping through tomes of ancient lore on his desk.

It's been almost 12 hours since Sam was taken and John is trying not to burn through his whole energy reserve lest he collapse right where he stands. They'd gone to Bobby's, a 30-minute drive, to regroup, to try to formulate a plan of attack, a rescue mission.

Dean is just as terrified as John is, though the child is manifesting it more than John. The oldest son is pacing the room, muttering under his breath, his skin pale, his hair askew—he's not handling it well.

"John," Bobby tries again and John glances at the other hunter. "What were you hunting?"

"Witch."

"Explains how she got him so quickly then," Bobby replies and John shakes his head, not really caring about the details. "You know what she was targeting?"

"Children." He answers without thinking and then curses loudly.

"For what? Youth spells?" Bobby's voice is calm and nonjudgmental, almost clinical.

"I hadn't gotten that far." John wants to punch the wall. He'd been so stupid! Tracking a witch who killed children to keep herself young and what he did do? He brought her her next victim!

"John," Bobby stands up, and comes to be next to him. Placing a hand on his shoulder, the other hunter smiles softly, "We'll get Sam back."

John just hopes that's true.

* * *

"I have to come with you." Dean insists that night after countless hours spent researching and Bobby calling in all of his favors.

After what seemed like an eternity, they'd gotten a location on the witch. Apparently, she loved her modest three-bedroom house so much that, despite all the money in her bank account and despite the fact she'd been alive for centuries, she chose there to reside. Still, it made tracking her down easier at least.

"No, Dean." John is packing up his duffel, rechecking his ammo, making sure that nothing is out of place. He is going to save Sam or die trying—anything else would be considered a failure.

"You have to let me save Sammy!" It amazes him how stubborn his eldest can be, how furious his temper can run.

"Dean, you are going to stay here with Bobby—"

"Dad, Sammy needs me too—"

"It's okay, Dean," Bobby stands in the doorway, an easygoing grin on his lips, trying to placate the boy. "Your dad's got this."

"But Uncle Bobby—!" Dean stamps his foot and for a second, John sees Mary before him, doing the same thing whenever she felt like she was being treated unfairly.

"It's okay," John continues. "I'll be back with Sammy before you know it."

John just hopes that's the case.

* * *

"Your son is alive." The witch informs him the moment he breaks the door down. She's dressed in a black cocktail dress, standing before a mirror, pinning up her auburn hair. She doesn't even spare him a glance.

"Where is he?" John points a gun at her, ready to kill her instantly should she give him an answer he doesn't like.

"You hunters, you're all the same," She adjusts a hairpin, taking a step back she glances at her appearance. "You think you can come in here, guns blazing, and get what you want."

"Where is my son, you bitch?" He hisses, voice full of venom.

She chuckles then, low and dark.

"You're quite rude, you know." She remarks softly, applying a coat of peach lipstick.

"I will shoot you—"

"Your son is alive, as I said," The witch says simply. "I've done a lot of things, but your son is alive." Her ice-blue eyes meet his and he she smirks.

"Where—?" His finger tenses on the trigger.

"Look, you can't kill me," She states, matter of fact. "I've been around for too many years and your son is alive—"

"You keep saying that, but—"

She waves her hand and Sam materializes, unconscious.

"And voilà!" The witch gestures to his passed out son.

As much as John wants to rush to his baby boy, he forces his gun to remain trained on her chest. It could be a trap, a chance for her to take out not only a hunter's kid, but also a hunter.

"Relax, Johnny boy," She mutters softly, her voice almost singsong. "Little Sammy there has a big destiny in front of him." She clasps a pearl necklace around her neck and reaches for her silver clutch off her table. "And even I wouldn't mess with that, no matter how much youth he would give me."

John hesitates, unsure of what that means.

"Now, now," The witch smirks, wagging her finger, "Can't say anything else. That would be a huge spoiler alert."

"You can't—" He begins to protest, but the witch sighs and faces him.

"I'm late already for a Christmas party. Time for you to go. Don't you hunters ever take a night off?"

And with another wave of her hand, John finds him and his son standing in the yard of the Singer Salvage.

* * *

John stands in the doorway of the gust bedroom, watching with a cautious eye as Dean tends to his sleeping, little brother. The nine year old is fussing with the blankets, tucking them in fully to keep his baby brother warm. Then, with a deft hand, Dean pushes a few strands of Sam's hair out of his face.

"How is he?" Bobby asks quietly and John sighs softly.

"A few bruises, a couple cuts," John explains. "Nothing serious."

"That's good," Then, seeing the eldest Winchester's grimace, he tacked on, "Isn't it?"

"The witch said something—"

"You know you can't trust—"

"I know," John interjects. "But—"

"Sammy?" That's Dean voice, a bit panicked and John immediately enters the room, seeing his youngest struggling to open his eyes.

"Daddy?" There are those wide hazel eyes that remind him so much of Mary.

"Hey, Sammy." John keeps a smile on his face, tries not to let his worry show. He still doesn't know if there is some magical effect that has its grip on Sam or if there might be a follow curse that will rear its ugly head.

"You okay Sammy?" Dean asks, urgent and insistent.

Sam scrunches up his nose and yawns.

"Take that as a yes." John remarks.

Sam grabs his hand and squeezes it and instantly, John melts.

This is Sam—his baby boy, his last connection to Mary and John had almost lost him.

And it hits him in that moment what he has to do.

* * *

The next morning, John has managed to put a Christmas tree up in Bobby's living room. During the night, he made garland out of some remnants of Christmas decorations he'd found in Bobby's closet. There are presents, wrapped in newspaper, under the tree.

"What the hell is this?" Bobby questions, more surprised than angered as he enters the room.

"Christmas." John mutters sheepishly.

"Christmas?" Bobby echoes.

John doesn't have to explain it though; Bobby understands why he's doing this.

"Bobby, I—"

"It's fine," Bobby replies, a grin alighting his lips. "Just haven't done Christmas here in a long time."

"Same."

"I'll go get something then."

Bobby is out the door, leaving John to just wonder when exactly his life became so bizarre.

He just laughs instead.

* * *

"Merry Christmas, Sammy!"

Sam is beaming, sitting in his father's lap, and opening presents. It's a perfect Christmas—his first one, since Mary died before December—and even Bobby is grinning.

"Thanks, Daddy." Sam hugs him, tiny arms encircling his waist and John can't believe this is happening right now. It's funny how a close call could really change a person.

And tomorrow, Christmas will be over and John will continue his quest for revenge.

But for today, it's Christmas, and only Sam's bright smile matters.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I hope this was a little more upbeat for all you since I got a lot of comments of how bittersweet that last chapter was. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	6. Let It Snow

_**Author's Note:**_ _Next chapter coming up! This one comes from_ _ **mckydstarlight**_ _who asked for, "Could you maybe do one with Charlie and Dean. I don't really have any sort of specifics except I would love to see Dean go all overprotective sibling on them both after freaking out just a little before he knows they are actually going to live, because Sam is his world and we know that he sees Charlie as the sister he never had and we don't get to see enough of that in the show. I'll leave you at liberty to come up with the situation about how Sam gets hurt though." This prompt was awesome! I'm such a huge fan of Charlie so writing family fluff between all three of them is awesome! Thanks so much! Let's set this during season 8, post "LARP and the Real Girl"._

* * *

" _Oh the weather outside is frightful_

 _But the fire is so delightful_

 _And since we've no place to go_

 _Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!"_

— _Michael Bublé, "Let It Snow"_

* * *

When he finds them both out in the snow, Sam is unconscious, lying out in the snow and Charlie is huddled next to his limp form, shivering, her lips blue.

"D-d-dean." She stammers as he throws his jacket around her shoulders and he turns to help his baby brother.

"It's okay." He lies, because he isn't sure if it will be okay, it's been four hours since he lost the two of them in the storm and he doesn't know if frostbite is a factor, or if Sam's injured in places he can't see.

A freezing hand touches his and he meet's Charlie's cloudy gaze.

"It's-o-o-kay." She stammers.

He smiles, surprised at her concern. He squeezes her hand back and then turns to his brother.

He'll get them both out of this alive.

* * *

He deposits Charlie in front of the raging fire in the living room and then takes Sam to his bed. He checks for any signs of frostbite—there are none, thank God—and then gets the electric blanket to tuck around his baby brother's form. He checks the bandage on the head wound—mild, shallow and not a concussion—to make sure that it isn't bleeding.

"Sammy?"

Sam stirs a bit and open his eyes, but they are dull and without recognition. He's still exhausted and his body needs rest and Dean plans to give him just that.

"D'n." A hint of a grin is on his baby brother's lips and Dean feels his dark mood lifting.

Sam and Charlie are both alive.

It was a close call, but they both are here with him.

He just needs to keep repeating that to himself.

* * *

They'd all gone out together to get a Christmas tree, per Charlie's suggestion.

"A real one?" Charlie questioned, her eyes wide and alight with joy, practically jumping up and down with excitement, "Like a huge one that smells like the outdoors?"

She'd never had a Christmas tree before—well, a real one, she amended—and Dean, of course, had relented—who could resist Charlie and Sam when they both gave him that kicked puppy expression?—and together, the trio of them had wandered out into the deep snow to get a tree.

Then the snowstorm arrived and then in a blanket of white and a harsh wind, Sam and Charlie were gone.

* * *

"You need another blanket."

"Dean—" Charlie protests, but it's too late. Dean is already tucking another layer of fabric around her shoulders.

"Just take the damn blanket, Charlie." He growls and she must still be exhausted because she doesn't protest like she would usually.

She's running a fever—100, so at least it's mild—but he doesn't want to take any chances that she'll get worse. She takes a sip of the water on the table in front of her and then sighs.

"Dean?" Her voice is muffled and her eyes are somewhat foggy. She's sick and must be miserable and there's nothing more he can do for her besides this.

He takes a seat next to her on the couch and grimaces as he sees her brow furrowing—she must have a headache—and he regrets the fact that he can't give her any more ibuprofen lest he go over the prescribed limit.

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"How's Sam?"

He blinks, a bit taken aback by her inquiry.

Sam is still asleep and he too has a fever though it's worse than Charlie's. Dean, for his part, has managed to get him to take some medicine, but it hasn't made much of a dent in the illness' progression.

There could be a hospital run in their future.

"Dean?" She tries again and he can see the fear in her eyes, the worry etched on her face.

So, Dean Winchester does what he does best. He takes her hand within his, plasters a grin on his lips and lies.

"He's just fine, Charlie."

He doesn't feel the least bit guilty when Charlie smiles and finally lets herself relax on the couch.

* * *

"Sam?"

Sam is sitting up on his bed, his hair clinging to his sweaty brow, the blankets a jumbled mass on the floor.

Dean stands in the doorway and sees this and immediately knows that something is seriously wrong. He comes into the room and kneels to make eye contact with his baby brother. In a soft voice he asks, "Sam? You okay?"

"I miss him." Sam slurs, the syllables colliding together harshly.

"Who?" Dean presses, unsure of what his baby brother is even getting at.

"Dad," He whispers, "And Bobby."

A wave of grief swells up within the eldest Winchester but he pushes it down and forces himself to live in this moment and right now, Sam needs him to be strong.

"Me too, Sammy." He admits softly.

"It's hot." The younger brother states petulantly.

"Yeah, well, you're sick." Dean tries to ease him back to lay down, but Sam isn't having any of it. Instead, his little brother stands up and Dean does his best not to scream at his brother to get his butt back in bed. The air in the bunker isn't freezing per se, but it is chilly and with the fever that Sam is currently sporting anything that isn't warm will cause more damage.

"Do you ever think . . . ?" Sam's voice trails off and Dean hesitates a moment.

"What?"

Sam doesn't answer; he shakes his head instead.

"Never mind," He gets back into bed, "It was a stupid thought."

"Sam, you can tell me—"

But Sam simply chooses to huddle in the blankets and close his eyes and that's how Dean knows the conversation is over.

* * *

"I'm pretty sure I told you to stop walking around." He growls as he catches Charlie in the kitchen.

The redhead smiles sheepishly and she stirs the soup of the stove, "But Dean, I'm feeling much better—"

He goes to her and places a hand on her forehead and grimaces at the heat emanating from her skin. Sighing, he gently nudges her from the stove and grabs the spoon from her hand.

"Sit down. You still have a fever."

"But—!"

"Sit down," He commands, stirring the soup. "And take your temperature."

With a dramatic sigh, Charlie does as she's told. Taking a seat at the counter, she reaches for the thermometer and sticks it in her mouth, glaring at the eldest Winchester somewhat.

After a few minutes, it beeps and Dean waits expectantly for her to tell him how much of a fever she has, but the self-proclaimed nerd stays silent.

"Charlie?"

She pouts and tacks on, "It's not that bad."

"What is it then?"

"Don't freak out."

Now, he is starting worry a bit.

"C'mon, Charlie, out with it."

"101." She reluctantly reports.

"It went up?" Dean practically shouts. He curses silently and then turns off the stove and moves the pot off the burner.

"That's for Sam." She points to the soup and smiles sheepishly.

"Don't worry about Sam," Dean tells her softly. "Worry about yourself. You need to get better."

"I will!" She chirps dutifully and Dean can't help but chuckle. Charlie is so easy-going; he'd forgotten how much he needed that in his life. Someone to put things in perspective; someone to remind him that there were things in life that were worth fighting for.

"Get back to bed." Dean presses a kiss to the top of her head and then returns to the soup.

"Aye-aye captain." She mocks salute him and then moves down the hall.

Dean just laughs.

* * *

"Dean?"

"What are you doing up?" Dean glances up from the pot of hot chocolate he's making for Charlie and glares at his little brother.

"My fever broke," Sam replies, smirking that same self-assured grin that Dean used to hate when he was younger. "So, I'm pretty sure that means I'm better."

"Yeah, well, you were out in the snow for who knows how long—"

The liquid on the stove begins to boil and Dean immediately begins to whisk it, trying to keep it from burning.

"It was just one of those things, Dean." Sam murmurs, pulling out three mugs from the cabinet. "It wasn't your fault."

Dean doesn't answer that, continues to stir the hot chocolate.

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

Dean looks up and meets his little brother's gaze.

"It's not your fault."

Dean huffs out a breath, shaking his head, "Yeah, sure."

Sam just sighs.

* * *

When Christmas comes, Charlie and Sam are both healthy.

The three are seated around a fake Christmas tree, opening presents wrapped in newspaper and laughing.

"This is the best Christmas ever." Charlie whispers, grinning.

"Yeah," Sam replies. "Thanks, Dean."

Dean, for his part, just dismisses their gratitude. As they drink hot chocolate and laugh and act like the tense week before them didn't happen, the eldest Winchester couldn't help but be grateful. He's lost a lot over the years—family, friends—but this right here, being with them, this is what he fights to protect.

The three of them, together, safe and happy, this is the best present he could ever want.

"Your welcome, Sammy."

And for the first time since the ordeal began, Dean actually feels relieved.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I love all the family feels and I hope you guys did too! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	7. I'm Too Much

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm almost caught up! Today's chapter comes from_ _ **SuperVikinggirl**_ _who requested, "Sam and Dean just get back to the motel after a hard hunt on Christmas eve. Both are pretty banged up, but with too much energy and too much pent up emotion from a hunt going south. They end up in a brotherly wrestle over the remote and what Christmas special to watch and the fight ends with Sam getting really hurt. Big Bro Dean saves Sam, Christmas eve and all ends with brotherly affection."_

* * *

" _A crowded room,_

 _Friends with tired eyes._

 _I'm hiding from you_

 _And your soul of ice."_

— _Wham! "Last Christmas"_

* * *

The hunt was a big fat failure with a capital "F".

Granted, Dean's been on more than a few bad hunts, but tonight's hunt blew them all out of the water. What had started out as a simple ghost hunt on Christmas Eve turned into a full-blown disaster where the house they were in had burned down, the ghost had gotten away and Sam and Dean had been banged around way too much.

"Here." Sam tosses him an ice pack and Dean grunts as his stiff hand catches it. His little brother is grimacing as he wraps a bandage over his cut shoulder.

"That need stiches?" Dean questions as he places the ice against his what must be surely bruised ribs. He got thrown against a few walls and had a dresser slammed against him. That ghost—a twelve year old, no less, a vicious one—had almost seen too gleeful as she has thrown stuff at him.

"No." Sam answers, wincing as he applies pressure.

"Merry friggin' Christmas, huh?" Dean remarks softly as he turns on the television. Soft music filters in, calm and reassuring, and the eldest Winchester feels a bit more at ease. Sure, there is still a ghost out there that he has to get rid of, but it can wait until tomorrow at least.

"Shit." Blood stains the bandage and immediately, Sam rewraps it, applying more pressure.

"You want me to do—?" Dean gestures to the bandage and Sam shakes his head no.

"I've got it." He snaps, a bit more irritable.

They're both on the edge here—their tempers bubbling so close to the surface—and one wrong word could trigger a meltdown. They've gotten into some nasty fights before after hunts gone wrong. Dean isn't keen to start one of those and say words he'll wish he could take back tomorrow.

"Fine." Dean says softly, flipping the channels.

 _"I'm Mister Heat Miser, I'm Mister Sun—_ "

He grins as he recognizes the song.

"Dude," He points at the screen. " _The Year Without a Santa Claus_ is on!"

"No, really?" Sam grimaces as he comes to sit next to his brother on the edge of the bed. "I hate this one."

"How could you hate it?" Dean demanded, voice tight. "It's the best special out there."

"No, it's not," Sam answers quietly, reaching for the remote only for Dean to jerk it away. "Dude, can't we watch something else?"

"No way! I haven't seen this all year—"

"Dean, c'mon, can't we watch something else? Like _Santa Claus is Coming to Town_?"

"I said no!"

On the television, the two misers begin to throw flame balls and snowballs at each other as they continue to hurl insults at each other.

"Dean, I hate this one!"

"Well, that is too damn bad—!"

Sam reaches for the remote and Dean jerks it away. With a growl of frustration, Sam throws his arm over his big brother and reaches for the remote. Dean pushes back and before he knows it, the two of them are wrestling like children, fighting for the remote.

It happens suddenly.

He jabs Sam in the heart with his elbow and his little brother lets out a strangled gasp.

Then, he goes limp.

Dean freezes.

"Sammy?" He nudges Sam, but his baby brother doesn't move. His chest is barely breathing, his eyes still shut. "Sam!"

Training cuts through the panic then and he immediately starts CPR, willing his brother to breathe and come back to him. This isn't how it's supposed to end for both of them. They are supposed to live—the two of them—and then, one day very far from this one, they'll go out together.

"Sammy, please!"

He keeps giving compressions, keeps giving breaths until—

Sam gasps, his eyes flying open as a cough wracks his system.

"Easy there, Sam," He pulls his brother to a sitting position and begins to rub circles on his back, hoping to ease the passage of air. "Take it easy."

"D'n—" Sam gasps and Dean beams.

"It's okay," Dean soothes. "You're okay now."

But Dean can't help but realize that he almost lost his brother because of a stupid Christmas special.

* * *

"Would you stop?" Sam finally demands as Dean hands him yet another bowl of cereal.

"Stop what?" Dean asks, much too innocently.

"Stop hovering," Sam snaps back, irritated. "I'm fine."

"Sam, your heart stopped beating because of what I did—"

"Dean." Sam places a hand on his brother's hand and smiles softly. "It wasn't your fault."

"Bullshit." Dean mutters, taking the bowl of cereal and putting it on the counter.

"I mean it, Dean," Sam states softly. "You have to stop beating yourself up for this. It was an accident."

"Sam—"

"Fine, okay," Sam shrugs, sighing somewhat, "You want to blame yourself for this, fine. But you're an idiot to think that way and it's Christmas so let's just agree to disagree."

"Fine."

Silence.

Then, softly, music begins to filter in.

" _I'm Mister White Christmas, I'm Mister Snow—"_

Dean glances at his brother who is smiling and though the guilt is still there, he still finds himself grinning back.

And together, they begin to watch.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _One more chapter to go and then I'm caught up! I'm glad you guys are enjoying this series. I'm having a blast writing them. Please review if you have a moment. Thank you so much for reading!_


	8. Faithful Friends

_**Author's Note:**_ _Sorry for the mad rush of updates. I didn't mean to fall behind so soon this early in this month. Today's prompt comes from_ _ **Idreamofivan**_ _who asked for, "As per my prompt, Sam is really sick with the trials, meanwhile, Dean is running himself ragged, taking care of Sam, researching how to make sure he survives the 3rd trial and trying to keep everything under his control without breaking down. Sam is scared his brother is going to make himself sick with all the stress and exhaustion. Maybe he even sprained his ankle or something like that because he was being distracted and careless?_ _Anyway, Sam decides that the best thing for Dean would be to have a real Christmas celebration, where everybody can come and help take care of him and Dean while spreading some Christmas cheer. Dean thinks Sam needs to be in bed and resting and not planning a party or partying. Still, Sam is sure that having everybody come over to party and help is just what the doctor order, so he invites Charlie, Jody, Kevin, Cas and whoever else you like. Sam is really sick for Christmas but they still have a really nice party and Dean gets the break he so much deserves." Love this prompt! Lots of family feels coming up folks! I think we could all use a break from the angst, right? Enjoy!_

* * *

" _Here we are as in olden days_

 _Happy golden days of yore_

 _Faithful friends who are dear to us_

 _Gather near to us once more."_

— _Kelly Clarkson, "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas"_

* * *

"Would you come sit down?"

Dean doesn't look up from the pot of soup that he's stirring on the stove. Beside the pot, cut up chicken rests on the cutting board, waiting to be added to the warm liquid. The eldest Winchester taste a quick taste of it, shakes his head and then adds some more salt.

"Dean," Sam tries again, forcing his voice to be louder and strong. Instead, a cough tears through him, shaking his body so much that all he manages to get out is, "S-s-s."

"Easy, Sammy." Dean instantly rushes over because he's Dean and that's what he does whenever Sam is in distress. Always putting Sam first, sacrificing his own needs to make sure his brother is okay.

And sometimes, Sam hates him for it.

He's been sick for who knows how long now—months, maybe?—and he isn't going to get any better until they figure out the third trial and Sam goes through with it. Sam knows that Dean understands this, yet that doesn't stop his older brother from continuing to mother hen him. Making him soup, giving him doses of medicine every eight hours on the dot—all the while Dean neglects his own needs, like sleep or getting enough food in his own system.

"I'm fine." Sam insists, pushing his brother away.

"You will be." Dean says softly, moving once more to the counter and to the soup.

"Dean, when are you going to eat?" Sam pushes himself up and tries not to sway as the world spins around him.

"Sit down—" Dean commands, but Sam ignores him and goes to the kitchen counter.

"You can take a break." Sam tells him quietly.

Dean ignores him and tosses the chicken in the pot.

"You need to take a break."

But his older brother doesn't say anything.

Sam just sighs.

* * *

Until one day, Dean actually manages to trip down the flight of stairs to the basement and sprains his ankle. Which is how the eldest Winchester finds himself seated next to his baby brother on the couch, his ankle elevated and iced.

"Look, I get that you want to take care of me—" Sam begins, knowing what his brother will say before he interrupts—

"Sam, don't start—"

"But you need to rest." Sam insists fiercely.

Dean gestures vaguely to the couch, "I'm resting."

"Sure," Sam mutters before getting up himself. Turning to his brother, he adds, "And I'm calling for backup."

"Back up?" That causes Dean to sit up. "Who are you calling?"

"Just relax, would you?" Sam grins like the Cheshire Cat; Dean grimaces.

"You're plotting something, aren't you?" The eldest brother snaps and Sam just chuckles.

"You'll just have to wait to find out."

"Sam—"

But Sam is already down the hall and gone by the time Dean manages to get up.

* * *

Slowly, Dean begins to hobble around with the help of crutches that he's managed to dig up in the bunker. As soon as he's mobile, the pieces of the puzzle start to come together.

The random pieces of tinsel he finds strewn around together. The glitter that seems to engulf every inch of available space in the bunker. Ornaments everywhere, sparkling in the light.

And at the center of this Christmas chaos, is Sam.

* * *

"You're planning a Christmas party." Dean accuses the next day as the feverish, youngest Winchester scribbles something on a yellow legal pad.

"Yep." Sam flips a page, adding more notes to the paper.

"And you think that's a good idea?" Dean presses, eyes wide, incredulous.

"Seems better than just sitting around doing nothing." His little brother remarks casually.

"You're not doing nothing, you're recovering—"

Sam scoffs at that, "We both know that until the Third trial is over that I'm going to stay like this—"

"Then, we should be figuring out the third trial—!"

"Dean." There's something in Sam's tone of voice, something vulnerable and weak. There's an unsaid plea in that one word, a hope for his blessing.

"Fine." Dean finally grumbles, acquiescing. It's useless to fight him anyways. Once Sam's made up his mind, there's no changing it.

He's just that damn stubborn.

* * *

"Dean Winchester, get out of the kitchen and go sit your butt on that damn couch before I decide to hit you with this spoon."

Dean can't help but laugh at Jody's sharp command as the Sheriff waves a wooden spoon in her hand.

"All right, all right," Dean tells her, finally walking on his own, though with a slight limp. He chuckles, "You should let me help, Jody."

Jody stirs a pot on the stove, "I know how to make a Christmas dinner, Dean." She narrows her gaze at him and waves the spoon once more. She begins to hum, a faint Christmas carol under her breath. It recalls a faint memory of his own mother to his mind and he finds himself smiling.

"Thank you."

Jody looks up, curious, "For what?"

"For coming."

Jody just laughs, deep and boisterous.

* * *

"Kevin, Cas," Sam starts, trying to suppress a laugh from bubbling up as he views the sight before him. "You guys decorated the tree?"

At least, that's what he thinks they've done. The tree is decked out with what looks to be various popcorn kernels on a string. Various glow in the dark stars are hung as ornaments on the branches and Sam can't help but frown as he sees the messy wrapping of presents under the tree.

"Is it not to your satisfaction?" Castiel questions, the angel's brow furrowing.

"I tried to explain to him," Kevin starts, shrugging, "But he didn't really get it."

"Get what?" The angel asks, facing the teen.

"It looks great." Sam tells the duo because, although it's not typical Christmas tree decorations, it does look nice. They put a lot of effort into it and that in itself is worth celebrating.

"Really?" The prophet echoes, surprised.

Sam just grins, "Really."

"You should rest." The angel insists gently, coming to place a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Your fever has spiked."

"It's fine, Cas." Sam tries to dismiss it, the angel doesn't relent.

"Rest now." Castiel repeats.

"Yeah," Kevin beams. "We'll get this cleaned up soon."

"No," Sam declares. "Leave it. I really like it."

"You got it." Kevin mocks salutes and Sam laughs, but it soon dissolves into a cough.

"Come," Castiel places a hand on his back and instantly, the youngest Winchester finds his breathing much easier. "Let's get you back to your room."

"Okay." Sam relents.

Together, they go.

* * *

"Charlie, come on." Sam nudges her from the couch and she jumps somewhat, though her eyes are barely open.

"M'still awake." She manages to say, though it's clear that she's really not.

They'd been watching Christmas specials all day, Charlie singing along and lifting his sprits. His fever sparked during the day and the redheaded Queen had made it her mission to keep him happy and medicated. She'd done a good job of it—for a while, Sam had actually forgotten he'd been sick—until she crashed, falling asleep slumped against his shoulder.

"Bed." Sam orders quietly and the self-proclaimed nerd stirs a bit more.

"Yeah, okay," She stands up and sways, her knees buckling, "Whoa."

Sam braces her, "Easy there, okay?"

"I'm good." She tells him, running a hand through her hair. Then frowning, she adds, "Sorry. I fell asleep."

"It's fine." He dismisses her concern, knowing there's nothing for her to apologize for.

"Hey," She nudges him, grinning. "Tomorrow's Christmas."

"Yeah." He beams, actually excited for the first time in what feels like years. He has friends and family around him once more. He may be sick, but he feels hopeful.

"Merry Christmas Eve, Charlie."

Charlie hugs him instead.

* * *

On Christmas day, he's burning up.

His fever has risen to 103 and though he isn't shivering anymore, he's having a very hard time concentrating on everything that's going on. He's already taking as much medicine as he can without overdosing, but it's not doing any good. He's sick—very sick—but there's nothing anyone can do.

He just has to grin and bear it.

He's seated on the couch, opening presents with Jody serving up food, Castiel being flummoxed by the customs, Kevin beaming with joy over his presents, and Charlie laughing. The friends he considers his family are finally by his side, supporting him, keeping him safe.

But perhaps the most important thing he sees is his older brother grinning. Dean, for once, is acting carefree, like he doesn't have the weight of the world on his shoulders. He's just a normal guy—not stressed out or fatigued.

And that is priceless to Sam, much better than any present he could've ever received.

* * *

"Hey."

"Hey." Dean hands him another blanket, which Sam gratefully accepts. As he tucks it around himself, he rests on the couch pillow.

It's late—Jody is cleaning the kitchen, Kevin has gone to bed, Castiel and Charlie are having a heated discussion about the merits of Maine Coon cats vs. Tabby cats.

"How are you feeling?" Dean inquires and Sam grins.

"Perfect."

"Liar." Dean retorts and Sam chuckles, coughing once more. "Come on, you need to get to bed."

"Just five more minutes."

He wants to savor this carefree feeling for as long as he possibly can.

"Okay," Dean relents as he comes to sit on the couch, "Five more minutes."

Outside, the snow softly begins to fall.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I loved writing this chapter. I'm such a fan of Winchester family feels! I hope you guys enjoyed it too. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	9. Falling Ice

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **Colby's girl**_ _who asked for, "While Christmas lights are being strung at a motel, store, library, etc. Sam is struck in the head by big icicles falling from above. Preferably not a weechester story but I'll leave that up to you." No weechesters, got it! Thanks for this awesome prompt. It's a really interesting one! So, let set this during Sam's time at Stanford._

* * *

" _Christmas Eve will find me_

 _Where the love light beams_

 _I'll be home for Christmas_

 _If only in my dreams."_

 _Bing Crosby, "I'll Be Home for Christmas"_

* * *

It's his first Christmas away from his family and though Christmas wasn't exactly a big deal—a night spent in another unfamiliar motel room, stolen presents wrapped in newspaper, John drinking himself into a stupor—Sam would be lying if he didn't admit that he was feeling homesick.

It was ridiculous though. You couldn't be homesick if you didn't have a home. As far as Stanford was concerned, Sam Winchester grew up in so many places because of his dad's military career. An army brat, which thanks to a few well made forged documents, he could back up.

But then again, it wasn't really a home Sam was missing, was it?

It was Dean.

* * *

It was almost three months since he stormed out of that motel room, his hand clutching his acceptance letter. Three months since John had disowned him and Dean had stabbed him in the back with his silence. Those three months had come and gone in a blink of an eye, but he still thought of his older brother everyday. He'd come close to calling so many times, stopping only when he recalled how Dean had, silently, taken his father's side.

And now he was going to spend his first Christmas break, alone, freezing in his dorm room.

"You're coming home with me," Brady orders when Sam tells him of his plan to stay in the dorm.

Sam opens his mouth to protest, only for Brady to interject, "No, don't even say anything. I am not leaving my best friend to suffer alone in this room. Now, pack your bags. We're leaving tomorrow."

And that is that really.

* * *

Brady lives in Michigan and Sam realizes the moment he steps off the plane that it is freezing. Ice and snow seem to cover everything, sparing nothing under its cruel grasp.

"You'll get used to it." Brady smirks at him.

"Doubt that."

"C'mon, let's go. Mom will have some hot chocolate."

It sounds so normal.

This is why he left, after all, to have moments like these. Safe moments with friends that you could trust. This is what he believes in, this is what he wants to experience.

"All right," Sam grins. "Let's go."

* * *

The hot chocolate is delicious.

It isn't straight from the packet, watered down liquid. This stuff is legit—melted chocolate with warm milk, homemade whip cream adorning the top with red and green sprinkles.

Brady's mother is a warm woman, with a bright smile and a boisterous laugh. She greets Sam with a hug, treating him like she's one of her sons. Brady's father, in turn, is a bit quieter than his wife, but he is invested in his son's life, inquiring after school assignments and grades.

He's everything that Sam wanted with John.

And just like that, Sam misses his family.

"You okay?" Brady nudges him as they take a few sips of their hot chocolate.

"I'm fine." Sam says in a measured tone.

"You're homesick." Brady deduces. "You want to talk about it? Call home maybe?"

There is no home though.

John's number is probably disconnected. He could call Bobby, make a few inquiries, but then again, his family could've called him. His number is exactly the same. Yet, no one has called.

They probably don't care.

"Sam?"

"No," Sam lies. "I'm fine."

* * *

Brady and his father are up on the roof, stringing up real Christmas lights. It's interesting to see how involved the process actually is. It isn't as simple as simply going up on the roof and attaching the lights. There's a lot of back and forth—Brady puts the lights down, his father attaches the clips to them, and together, they slowly string the lights.

"Oh, Sam," Brady's mother calls from the doorway. "Are you sure you don't want to borrow a jacket?"

"No thanks!" He calls back, his gaze still trained on the Christmas lights.

Dean would be good at this, Sam thinks idly.

Dean's always been good at working with his hands and actually stringing up Christmas lights would be no challenge for his older brother. Dean might even be one of those kinds of people who coordinated their lights to music. Or maybe, Dean would just keep it classy with just a few strands here and there.

Regardless, Sam knew that Dean would like—

"Sam, move!"

His body reacts on instinct, but it's split second too slow. He's out of practice, he guesses.

The last thing he remembers before he blacks out is the splitting pain that explodes in his temple.

Then, nothing.

* * *

" _Merry Christmas, Sammy."_

 _He opens his eyes and his brother is standing in front of a Christmas tree, a real, honest-to-God Christmas tree with garland and ornaments and sparkling lights._

" _What is this?" He asks, not even able to keep the grin off his lips._

" _It's Christmas." Dean beams._

" _A real Christmas." Sam mutters, blown away._

 _He touches the tree, fingering the fir needles, enjoying the outdoorsy smell._

" _Sam."_

" _Yeah."_

" _You need to wake up now."_

 _That takes him off guard._

" _What?"_

 _His brother isn't there anymore though. The room is dark and bare._

" _Dean?"_

 _You need to wake up now, Sam._

 _A voice surrounds him, insistent and forceful._

 _Wake up, Sam!_

 _Then, the floor opens up beneath him and he's falling down for what seems like an eternity._

* * *

He opens his eyes, blinking against the blinding light.

"Sammy?"

He knows that tone, knows that voice more than any other voice in the world.

"D'n?" His own voice is slurred. He blinks a few times, the foggy picture coming into view.

Dean is seated there by his hospital bed, dark circles under his eyes and five o'clock shadow on his face.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean manages a shaky smile and Sam finds himself smiling back. "You remember what happened?"

"My head?" Sam questions and he can feel a white bandage under his hands, wrapped around his head.

"Yeah, Sam." Dean nods. "You got hit with an icicle."

There are a lot of unanswered questions floating in his mind, but the medicine coursing through his system has fogged it and he can't quite latch onto a thought longer for a few seconds.

"Stay?" Sam manages to ask instead.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean squeezes his hand. "I'm staying."

And though it wasn't the normal Christmas celebration he wanted, at this moment, Sam knew it would be his best one by far.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Awwww, I love this chapter so much! Writing it was like getting a warm hug. I hope you guys enjoyed it. Please review if you have a moment! Thanks._


	10. Hell

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today's awesome prompt comes from_ _ **ktdog1**_ _who requested, "It's Sam's first Christmas after getting out of the cage, and he's still trying to make up for his soulless self while still not messing with the wall. Dean went out for a little bit, so Sam decides to bake him a Christmas pie. Unfortunately, it catches on fire, which, of course, triggers a flashback of The Cage that causes Sam to pass out in the now on fire room. Imagine Dean's surprise when he returns to find the place in flames, with his little bro nowhere in sight. Could go hurt!Sam from everything to Cage flashback trauma to burns to smoke inhalation; it's up to you." Oh wow, I haven't gone a cage fic in awhile so thank you so much for this prompt! Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _For I've grown a little leaner,_

 _Grown a little colder,_

 _Grown a little sadder,_

 _Grown a little older,_

 _And I need a little angel_

 _Sitting on my shoulder,_

 _Need a little Christmas now."_

 _Shane Harper, "We Need a Little Christmas"_

* * *

The first and only rule is don't think about it.

Don't think about how awful Hell must've been like, with its eternal burning flames licking his skin.

Don't think about the wrathful beatings that he must've received from Lucifer or Michael.

Don't wonder what his soulless self did while he was gone, or who he might've hurt—killed—and how to make amends to those people.

Don't touch the wall.

Don't kick the wall.

Just pretend like everything is fine.

It's not fine though. The guilt is overwhelming really, even though he doesn't really know what he did—besides almost killing Bobby—and the more he tries to figure out what he did, the more his brother growls at him, the more the pain flares up in his temple.

 _Don't mess with the wall, Sammy._

What's behind the wall though—the sins he's committed—he needs to know them. He has to know what did and fix his mistakes.

Bobby still barely looked at him. The gruff hunter wouldn't even acknowledge him when he came into the room anymore. This man—who Sam considered as a surrogate father—hated him.

All for something he couldn't remember.

 _Bobby is trying, Sam. He's knows it wasn't you._

What Dean doesn't get though is that it was him. Sure, he'd been without his soul, but part of him had acted out his darkest thoughts. Soulless Sam was still Sam—a bad part, sure, but Sam all the same.

And that's why Sam has to make amends.

 _Just don't kick the wall, Sammy._

* * *

Christmas offers a distraction at least.

Dean's got them holed up in a semi-nice motel in California. They're actually close to the beach, which, Sam suspects, is his older brother's way of trying to cheer him up. While it was much too cold to go swimming, the roar of the waves does calm him somewhat.

"You sure you'll be good while I go out?" Dean asks for the 5th time this afternoon.

Sam does his best not to roll his eyes, "I'll be fine, Dean."

"You're sure?" The oldest Winchester questions.

Dean hasn't really left him alone since he woke up at Bobby's. He's scared, Sam's sure, that his little brother will kick the wall and let himself get killed on purpose.

That's not Sam's intention.

He wants to know what's behind the wall, yes, but not at the cost of his life. Maybe that's selfish or wrong, but that's how he feels.

"Go get lunch." Sam practically orders. "I'll be here when you get back."

Dean hesitates a moment more, but finally replies, "You better."

"Go." Sam grins.

And Dean does.

* * *

If there is one thing Sam knows how to do almost as well as hunting, it's making Christmas pie. Specifically, apple pie. It's a recipe that he knows Dean loves, a tried and true one he picked up from a culinary arts teacher.

Making the pie gives him a chance to relax, to check out somewhat as he lets himself go through the motions. Rolling out the dough, slicing the apples—he doesn't have a chance to wonder what's behind the wall, what he might've done to some innocent soul.

It's a rookie mistake that ruins it all.

The oven begins to smoke—there must be something burnt on the bottom of it—and it's really no big deal—

Until it is.

Because where there's smoke, there's fire.

And the last time he saw fire was in Hell.

* * *

 _Pain._

 _Burning, consuming him whole, indescribable pain._

 _His voice is raw from all the screaming. No can hear him anyways and no one is coming for him. He made this choice to atone for all mistakes, to save the world, to save Dean._

 _Dean is out there, somewhere, smiling, laughing, and living that white picket fence life with Lisa that Sam had always wanted to experience for himself. He would never get to, but knowing that Dean is out there is a small comfort._

 _Not enough to dull the pain._

 _But enough to endure it._

 _Around him, the flames lick his skin, searing it._

* * *

"Sammy!"

He forces his eyes open and Dean is standing above him, panicked, eyes wide, dark smudges on his skin.

"D'n?" There is an oxygen mask on his own face and he immediately goes to remove it, only for his older brother to keep it in place.

"You need it, Sam," Dean tells him. "You got a lungful of smoke."

Smoke?

He turns his head and sees the motel room is currently ablaze. Fire fighters swarm it, combatting the flames.

"The pie?"

Dean huffs out a laugh, "It's gone, Sammy. Probably nothing more than ash."

Sam grimaces.

"It's fine, Sam."

It's not though, not in the slightest. Not only is the pie gone, but Sam's also managed to set the room on fire.

"Just breathe." Dean coaches and Sam forces himself to do that.

He really just can't do anything right, can he?

* * *

"Do you ever wish I had stayed in Hell?" Sam asks the question abruptly, in the car after being released from the hospital with a clean set of lungs.

"What kind of question is that?" Dean growls, his grip tightening on the wheel.

"If I had stayed in Hell, you and Lisa—"

"Sam, don't start—"

"—you two could've been happy and Bobby wouldn't hate me—"

"Bobby does not hate you—!"

"—I'm just saying if I had stayed in Hell, everyone would've been better off."

Dean doesn't say anything for the longest time. When he does speak finally, it's in a quieter tone than Sam is used to.

"When you were in Hell," Dean swallows nervously, almost as if he's afraid to confess this. "Sure, I was with Lisa, but it wasn't real. I was so fucked up after everything that I couldn't really be . . . present, with her."

"I'm sorry—"

"No," Dean interjects sharply. "That's on me. But Sam, you have to understand, I'm so damn grateful you're back. Not a day goes by where I wish you were gone. Not even when I found out you were soulless."

Sam frowns, "But Dean, I—"

"I know you think it was you acting that way," His brother continues. "But I know you Sam. That robot, he couldn't come close to being you." Dean smiles softly. "You're the only guy I know who would risk his own life to try and make amends for possible mistakes."

Sam feels a weight on his shoulders slowly lift off. It's like he can breathe better now.

"So, no," Dean finishes. "I don't wish you had stayed in Hell. If anything, I should apologize to you."

"For what?" Sam questions, confused.

"For letting you go through with it. I could've found another way—"

Sam places a hand on his brother's shoulder and squeezes it.

"It's okay, Dean."

There's still trauma there, lurking within both of them. A barrage of what-ifs still haunted their nightmares, consumed their nights. But in this moment, absolution is given.

There will be trials down the road. Tribulations that they will have to overcome.

But sitting in the car next to his brother, it hits Sam that as long as he has Dean by his side, they can do anything.

And that makes Sam beam.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I know Sam still struggles with self-worth issues, especially during this specific time period, so I was glad that I got to at least touch upon that with this prompt. Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	11. Fault

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today I just had a crappy day for a variety of reasons. Because of that, I'm so happy that I get to write some hurt!Sam to help cheer me up. I hope you guys are having a better day than me! Today's prompt comes from_ _ **that angsty impala**_ _who requested, "The boys wind up in a motel on Christmas, and so head out to a diner in search of Christmas dinner. Due to Winchester luck, they walk straight in on an armed robbery. Cue Sammy taking a bullet for Dean and a ticket to the hospital." Thank you for this awesome prompt! Let's set this in season one, okay? Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _And it came to pass on that Christmas evening_

 _While all the doors were shuttered tight_

 _That in that town, the happiest Christmas_

 _Was shared by candle light."_

— _Paul Stookey, "Christmas Dinner"_

* * *

Dean really shouldn't be surprised by this turn of events.

"Easy," He puts his hands out, keeps his voice slow and calm, tries to get control of the situation unfolding. "Let's just talk about this."

The gunman who shakily stands before him doesn't seem inclined to that idea. He points the gun at Dean's heart, an instant death sentence if he pulls the trigger.

"Shut up," The gunman hisses, "Or you'll be dead."

A waitress sobs for a split second before slamming her hand on her mouth, keeping the sounds under control. Other patrons who hadn't managed to escape when the gunman had showed up, huddle together, terror evident in their eyes.

"Look, you don't want to do this." Dean begins, but the gunman laughs.

"I'm not going to tell you again," He hisses, putting the barrel of the gun on his chest. "Shut the fuck up."

It's clear they're in a standoff and there's no way out.

* * *

Dean really shouldn't have expected something different when they went out for dinner, on Christmas no less. Their luck is bad, even by normal standards, and fate seemed to have it out for them.

He just wanted to take Sam out for dinner to cheer him up. It's only been a little bit of time since Jessica died and he knows his little brother still, unjustly, blames himself for her death. Dean knows he's wrong, but it would take Sam to come around and see the truth.

Sam's been depressed, moping around whatever motel room they called home for the week, silently lamenting all that he had lost in such a short of amount of time and quietly blaming himself for everything that went wrong.

So, after much debate, Dean had dragged his brother out into the cold, to go get dinner at the diner across the street from the motel.

And that's how they walked into the robbery in progress.

* * *

Which, is how they got to here, with a gun pressed into Dean's chest.

"I just want the fucking money!" The robber barks at the older woman huddling next to the cash register. "Give it to me or you all are going to die!"

"I told you," She whispers, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I'm new here. My manager knows how to open the register—"

"You're lying, you bitch!" The gunman screams, spinning around to face her now, a gun in her face. "Open it or I will shoot you—!"

"I can't!" The woman practically screams, sobbing.

"Take it easy," Dean tries to get the gunman to focus on him. If he does, they may have a chance to disarm the guy and get him to the police. "She doesn't know anything."

The gun is back in Dean's line of sight.

"One more damn word," The gunman threatens through clenched teeth. "One more word and I will blow your fucking head off!"

It's a risk to keep talking, but a calculated one. Until the police get here, he might be the only one here with enough skill to actually disarm the guy. It might be the only way to get everyone here out alive—

"What's your plan, huh?" Dean presses. "Put down the gun and run. The cops are on their way and when they get here—"

He isn't sure what exactly happens in the second after he says that. It's almost as if time slows down and Dean is aware of three things all at once.

One, there is a loud bang that resounds in the room, piercing the fragile silence.

Two, the feeling of falling as he is shoved to the side.

Three, the sight of his baby brother's chest bleeding as the bullet slams into his skin.

Dean seizes the moment and punches the robber and keeps punching him until the guy is unconscious. He shouts at a woman to call 9-1-1 and then rushes over to Sam.

"M'fine." Sam manages to say through gritted teeth.

Dean acts on instinct, ripping his own outer shirt into strips and applying pressure to his brother's wound. The blood soaks through the material and Dean tries not to think about what that might mean for Sam.

"Just hold on, Sammy."

But Sam is unconscious and bleeding out and Dean is useless.

And what's worse, it's Dean's fault.

* * *

"Sam Hagar?"

Dean stands up immediately, nearly knocking the chair over in the process.

"I'm his brother. How is he?"

The doctor comes over to him, glancing at a chart.

"The bullet missed any vital organs and he didn't lose too much blood, so all things considered, I'm not too worried." The doctor manages a small smile and places a hand on Dean's shoulder. "He was incredibly lucky."

Dean wants to laugh at that, but instead he manages to ask, "Can I see him?"

"Of course. Right this way."

* * *

"Okay, ow." Sam grimaces as he tries to sit up in the hospital bed.

"Just let me do that, would you?" Dean hisses, fixing the pillows behind his brother's injured form. Gently, he helps his baby brother sit up easily. "Better?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Dean doesn't say anything. He doesn't deserve thanks, not when it's his fault that his baby brother is here in the first place. If he had just kept his mouth shut, Sam would've never—

"Stop it." Sam interjects.

"What?" Dean asks, all too innocently.

"I can hear you blaming yourself from here." Dean opens his mouth to protest only for Sam to add, "Don't, Dean."

"Why not?" Dean questions, more bitterness in his tone than he expected. "It is my fault you're here, Sam. If I had just kept my damn mouth shut—"

"You were trying to save innocent people—"

"And it should be me in that hospital bed!" Dean snaps, anger welling up within him. He huffs out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. "You should've never had to push me out of the way!"

"Had to?" The youngest Winchester echoes. "Dean, I pushed you out of the way because you're my brother."

"I'm supposed to protect you." He insists and Sam chuckles dryly.

"You think that doesn't go both ways? Dean, I would do anything for you."

The older Winchester brother stays silent for a long time after that. Finally, in a quiet voice, he manages to say, "I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam laughs, "Dean, relax, you have nothing to apologize for. I'm fine, okay? There's no point in worrying about the what-ifs—"

"But—"

"Dean," Sam interrupts sharply, his gaze meeting his brother's, "It's okay, really. I'm okay."

Dean huffs out a laugh, squeezing his brother's wrist.

"Merry Christmas then Sammy. You sure have shitty luck."

Sam laughs, loud and boisterous.

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	12. Visions

_**Author's Note:**_ _I would just like to take a moment to thank all of you who review day after day. It never fails to make me smile. Today's prompt comes from_ _ **slyvia37**_ _who requested, "Sam and Dean are at Bobby's and decide to decorate and have a real Christmas. Jody is coming and Castiel could show up. Sam finds some old Christmas lights and . . ." And does not get electrocuted! Sorry, I've just written so many stories where Sam gets shocked by old Christmas lights that I'm quite tired of it. Thank you for giving me a chance to write whatever springs to mind! I hope you enjoy. Let's set this in early season 7._ _ **Please note that this chapter deals with self-hate and attempted suicide. If this bothers you, please do not read.**_

* * *

" _Deck the halls with boughs of holly,_

 _Fa la la la la, la la la la._

 _Tis' the season to be jolly,_

 _Fa la la la la, la la la la."_

— _Tenth Avenue North, "Deck the Halls"_

* * *

Sam has gotten quite used to ignoring things.

Ignoring, for example, Lucifer's off-key singing as the Devil picks up various Christmas decorations and grins maliciously at him. Paying no attention to the way the room sometimes will grow burning, fire almost consuming his skin. In fact, Sam does his best not to notice anything out of the ordinary, relying on pressing his scar to give him relief.

"You know what I want for Christmas, Sammy?" Lucifer smiles lazily as he lounges on the couch, tossing a gold ornament up and down.

Don't look at him. Don't act like he's real because he is not real.

"I want you to give up this whole charade." Lucifer sits up now, sighing dramatically. "I want you to realize that you never left the Cage."

Sam doesn't say anything and Lucifer gets up, coming towards him. An ice-cold hand touches his shoulder and the youngest Winchester shudders. The Devil laughs and placing his mouth by Sam's mouth, he whispers, "You and me against the world, Sammy."

Sam does his best not to fall apart right there.

* * *

"How bad is it?" Dean questions softly as Sam folds the spare blanket into a perfect square.

"Yeah, Sammy, how bad is it?" Lucifer parrots from his perch on the bed, swinging his legs back and forth, like a petulant child on time out.

"It's nothing." Sam dismisses.

"Liar." Lucifer retorts.

"Liar." Dean echoes and Sam does his best not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He's a mess, really. He might be living out a fake dream in the Cage or he could be back in the real world and be insane.

"Not really any good choices there." Lucifer comments.

"Sam," Dean presses, his brother's brows knitting in concern, "Tell me what's going on."

"Yeah!" Lucifer chirps, clapping his hands together, "Let's get some Dr. Phil action going on here. You tell him how you feel, I'll tell you how I feel and—"

Sam digs his thumb into his scar, the pain blissfully making the vision of the Devil waver.

"He's here, isn't he?" His older brother states because he's knows the answer.

"I've got it under control." Sam grits his teeth, feeling wet liquid coating his fingernail as the blood spills out.

Dean grabs his hand, taking his injured one in his grasp with the gentlest of touches.

"This isn't under control." His brother contradicts softly, grimacing somewhat. He pulls out a towel from the pile of laundry on the bed and wraps it around Sam's palm. He squeezes it and Sam hisses somewhat as the pain flares up.

"I'm trying." Sam whispers, ashamed, angry with himself for being so weak. He shouldn't be falling apart. He should be stronger, should be better—

"Sam."

He glances up and meets his brother's piercing gaze.

"It's okay to not be okay."

Sam huffs out a broken, bitter laugh.

"I mean it, Sam," Dean insists fiercely, a grin tugging at his lips, "We all have our bad days—"

"Except my bad days are me seeing the Devil in Bobby's living room." Sam scoffs, running his uninjured hand through his hair. "Dean, I'm a mess."

"You're the man who saved the world," Dean tells him sharply. "And you're my brother. You're not crazy."

This is just the price he pays for saving the world, the burden he carries that no one will ever know about aside from those closest to him.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

Sorry that he can't believe what his brother is telling him, sorry that he's bringing Dean down and sorry that he's crazy.

But Dean just keeps on surprising him.

"It's okay, Sam."

Dean envelops him in a hug and if Sam closes his eyes he can almost pretend that he isn't crazy.

Almost.

* * *

"You sure you want to decorate?" Bobby questions gruffly as Sam pulls out the dusty boxes of Christmas decorations from the older hunter's closet.

"Sure," Sam says with an easygoing grin. "Jody is coming to visit, right? It would be nice to show her something other than whatever monster we're hunting."

Bobby chuckles at that, "I guess that's true."

Sam pulls out a few strands of garland and puts them aside.

"You going to get the tree?" Sam questions and Bobby nods his head.

"You sure you don't want any help?" The surrogate father figure asks and Sam shakes his head.

"Nah, I've got it." The youngest Winchester answers, grinning as he pulls out a few ornaments.

"Okay, then," Bobby pulls out his truck keys and moves towards the front door. "Dean and I will be back soon."

"Got it."

The door slams shut behind him and Sam hums Christmas carols under his breath, filling the silence. Reaching into the box, he pulls out the string of Christmas lights, multi-colored light bulbs glistening. He places them in his hand, turning them over, looking for cracks. A red one, bright and brilliant, seemingly glows.

Like Hellfire.

"Hiya Sammy." Lucifer coos and Sam shudders as the temperature in the room plunges.

"You're not real." Sam hisses, but the Devil laughs, loud and boisterous.

"I am real, Sammy," Lucifer insists. "And you're in Hell." The Devil takes the lights from Sam's grasp and wraps it around the youngest Winchester's neck.

He can't breathe as the lights bite into his flesh.

That's when the fire appears, burning his skin, the flames engulfing him as he bites on his lip, preventing a shriek from escaping his mouth.

"Let's play, Sam."

That's when Sam breaks.

* * *

In Hell, there was no sense of time.

Time didn't exist in a realm where all Sam knew was pain and agony. From the wrathful beatings of Michael to Lucifer's deliberate torture sessions, Sam didn't know if it had been days or years since he sacrificed himself.

What got him through it, what gave him solace, was thinking of Dean.

Dean living his life with Lisa, being a father to Ben, being happy and safe.

That's how he got through Hell, how he managed to not break down completely.

* * *

"Sammy."

He opens his eyes and gasps as he sits up much too fast. The room spins around him and he grimaces as he places a hand to head.

"Take it easy." Dean coaches softly as he places a hand on Sam's back, rubbing those familiar circles that he used to do when Sam had been a little kid.

"He okay?" Bobby questions, voice low and tinged with concern. There's a bag of groceries in their surrogate father's grasp and Sam shakes his head, trying to lift the fog from his mind.

"I'm fine." He forces his voice to come out strong and confident, even though, deep down, he's shaken. He instantly reaches for his neck but his skin is unbroken.

It hadn't been real then.

"You want to share with the class?" Dean is kneeling in front of him now, those green eyes sparkling with worry and a bit of fear, though he's trying really hard not to convey that. Sam knows him too well though—he'll never be able to hide anything from him.

"I just . . ." He swallows hard, thinking about the pain and how real it felt. It couldn't have all been in his head, could it?

"You saw him." Bobby concludes solemnly. "Damn it, kid."

Sam glances away, ashamed. He's useless like this. He can barely function like this. What good is he to them—to anyone—if he was prone to psychotic breaks like this?

Or maybe they weren't break with reality.

Maybe this—Dean, Bobby, the house, everything—maybe this was a break from the torture.

Did he get out of the Cage?

"You got out." Dean interrupts sharply, forcing his face into Sam's line of vision. "We got you out, Sammy."

Lucifer smirks for the edge of his vision and Sam grits his teeth and looks away.

"Run, run, run, as fast as you can," Lucifer sings off-key, sinisterly. "You can't stop me, I'm the Devil." He chuckles. "It doesn't rhyme as well, does it?"

"Is he here?" Dean questions insistently.

"Sam, look at us." Bobby commands sharply.

"Yeah, Sam, let them look at you!" Lucifer shouts, excited. "Let them see how much of a freak you really are!"

It's his breaking point.

Sam simply gets up, walks out the door, gets into the Impala and drives away.

It must take twenty seconds in all for him to leave Singer Salvage behind him.

"Well, well," Lucifer coos from the shotgun seat, "I'm liking this side of you, Sammy. Let's go!"

Sam just floors it.

* * *

He disables his GPS on his phone and ditches it on the highway. He doesn't know where he's going, but he also doesn't care. He just needs to get away from their concerned glances and their platitudes.

They couldn't fix him—no one could.

"Glad you finally see it my way," Lucifer chuckles. "So, you finally done playing? Ready to get out of here?"

Sam ignores him.

"Cause all it would take is one bullet, Sammy."

His grip tightens on the steering wheel.

"Just think about it, would you?"

Sam keeps driving.

* * *

He stops in some no-name town, four hours west of Bobby's and checks into a motel room. He should ditch the Impala—it was too distinct of a car to go unnoticed and he was sure Dean had been in contact with Jody who would have an APB out on him—but part of him is comforted by the car's presence. She was as much of a home to him as anything else and he couldn't forsake her.

"So, Sammy," Lucifer flops on the bed, arms outstretched. "You finally going to end this charade?"

Sam knew the moment he got into the Impala that this is what it would lead to.

He's going to kill himself.

He's going to break free of this illusion, if he is in one. Or, if not, he will at least be saving Bobby and Dean from having to deal with him and his fucked up mental state. He couldn't let his family go through this. He's a mess and he has to stop himself from hurting anyone else.

"I like this new side of you, Sam," Lucifer chirps. "Strong and silent, it's a good look for you."

Sam takes out the handgun that they kept in the Impala's trunk and places it on the bed. The glint of the metal in the light is reassuring to him. He can finally do something right. By taking himself out of the equation, Dean and Bobby could finally move on.

It's the best course of action.

He loads the gun with deliberateness and then sits on the bed. He undoes the safety and places the gun to his head. He closes his eyes, blocks out Lucifer's laughs and tries to think of that night so many years ago, when he and Dean had just sat on the Impala's hood and watched the stars.

In that moment, they hadn't been hunters.

They'd just been brothers.

He's about to pull the trigger when the door bursts open.

"Sammy!"

Dean is there because, of course, Dean would find him, Dean always finds him, and while it usually reassures him, tonight, he's tired of it.

He just wants it all to be over.

"Killjoy!" Lucifer shouts, sticking his tongue out at Dean.

"Take it easy, Sam," Dean has his arms out, nonthreatening, and his voice is soft. "You wanna tell me why you're doing this?"

"Because I'm no good to you." He states quietly and Dean's eyes widen ever so slightly.

"No good?" He repeats, turning over the words in his mind. "Who told you that? The Devil?" Dean takes a step closer to him. "Because he's not here, Sam, and I need you to believe me when I say that."

Sam huffs out a laugh.

"So, what?" He retorts.

"So what?" Dean echoes, perplexed.

"So, what if he's not real, Dean?" Sam is shouting now, his voice loud and full of frustration. "You think I can help you and Bobby when I'm like this? You think I can hunt? I can barely keep it together! I'm dragging you two down!"

"No, you aren't—" Dean insists sharply.

"I can't keep letting you two down. How much longer will it be until I screw up, Dean? A week, a month, maybe?"

"You are not a screw up—!" Dean snaps now, almost offended by the notion.

"You want to know what I saw while you and Bobby were gone?" He taunts. "Lucifer strangled me with Christmas lights. Merry fucking Christmas, right?"

"I'm sorry, Sammy." Dean tells him softly, taking another measured step towards his brother. "But you need to trust me. We got you out. Whatever he's telling you, whatever you're seeing—it's not real."

Dean is inches apart from him now.

"Just let me go." Sam begs, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"I can't, Sammy." Dean manages a smile and it reminds Sam of days spent playing hide and sick in the salvage yard, of sing-a-longs in the Impala, and of successful hunts.

"I'm broken, Dean." Sam whimpers.

"No, you're not," Dean insists. "You're my brother and we'll figure this thing out, just like we always do."

Sam wants to believe him so badly but—

"Give me the gun, Sam."

Sam does.

The tears consume him then as the grief of what he is going through—of what he tried to hide—consumes him. A sob wracks through him and his knees buckle, but Dean's strong arms brace him and together, they both sink to the floor.

"It's going to be okay, Sammy." Dean assures him. "You're not broken."

For once, Lucifer says nothing and as Sam clings to his brother, he starts to believe that he has a chance.

Maybe, he could piece himself back together again.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _My favorite chapter so far! I really loved writing it! I hope you enjoyed it. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	13. Illusion

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **swellison**_ _who asked for, "Sam gets injured protecting Dean from the monster that they're hunting a few days before Christmas." Thank you for the awesome prompt! Let's set this in season 2. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _It's coming on Christmas_

 _They're cutting down trees_

 _They're putting up reindeer_

 _And singing songs of joy and peace_

 _I wish I had a river_

 _I could skate away on."_

— _Sarah McLachlan, "River"_

* * *

"Why on Earth should I take you?" The witch growls through clenched pearly white teeth. She's radiant actually, probably due to glamour spells and age reversing spells, but with her cream skin and her crimson hair piled high upon her head, Sam can't help but admit that she is beautiful.

But she also tried to kill his brother.

Why, that's the part Sam isn't exactly clear about. Sure, Dean is a hunter and that makes them both targets, but they hadn't even gotten within twenty feet of their first witness before she had shown up, magic at the ready, tossing his brother against a door and about to kill him with lightning before Sam stepped in.

"Why do you want my brother?" He retorts and she chuckles somewhat.

"You hunters, you're all alike," She comments softly. "But I've heard about Dean Winchester. He killed one of the sisters in my coven three years ago and I will not let that go unpunished." She snaps her fingers and sparks drift down from her fingertips. "Stand aside, I have no quarrel with you."

"I can't do that." Sam hisses, reaching for his gun.

"I will kill you before you even fire that weapon." She snaps, practically snarling.

Dean's unconscious body is propped up against the back wall of the motel room and Sam is all that stands in-between him and the furious witch. If he lets his guard down, even for a second, Dean is dead.

Sam can't let that happen.

"Fine," She holds her hand up and Sam does his best to brace himself. "You want to trade places with him?" She smirks. "Fine."

The last thing Sam is aware of is a gust of wind blowing him away followed by darkness.

* * *

"Sam?"

He opens his eyes and has to blink a few times before he allows himself to breathe.

"Jess?"

It can't be her, but it is.

Jessica Moore—his Jessica Moore—is seated on the edge of the bed. She's still as radiant as she was the last day he saw her. Her blonde hair is tied back into a ponytail and she's wearing no make-up. Her calm gaze rests on his and she smiles, warm and inviting.

"Sam, you okay? You're staring." She tilts her head to the side, a confused expression gracing her features.

"You're . . ." She grimaces. "You're dead, Jess."

She huffs out a laugh and leans across the bed, pressing her lips to his.

"You're still dreaming." She chuckles.

"No, I . . ." He sits up and glances around the room now. It's their apartment from Stanford, every little detail perfectly rendered, from the bedside notes on the nightstand, to Jess' makeup messily organized into piles on their dresser.

"Sam?" She places a hand on his forehead and man, he's forgotten how soft her skin was—is—and he wants nothing more than to pull her into his arms and never let her go. "Sam, are you alright?"

She's here, alive, not burning on the ceiling, and that means something is terribly wrong, but he can't really muster up the energy to care because she's here, alive and he is normal.

He's not the guy whose father told his brother to kill him if he couldn't be saved.

He's not the young man whose girlfriend died burning on the ceiling.

"Sam." Jess tries once more, raising her voice to get his attention. "Are you okay?"

He grins and kisses her, hard, full of passion and when they finally break apart to breathe, he can't help but beam and say, "Never better."

* * *

Except it's not real.

He knows it's not real.

As Jessica bustles around the kitchen, humming that familiar melody under her breath, Sam can't help but sit at the kitchen table and wonder what exactly is going on here.

Is he dead? Is this Heaven?

If it is though, shouldn't he not be concerned by the events that led him to his death, i.e. the witch who had been determined to get her hands on his older brother.

"You're thinking too much." Jess chuckles as she flips a pancake on the stove. "Would you just relax? It's Saturday. No exams or classes to go to, just you and me."

Except, he needs to find Dean. He needs to make sure his older brother is safe. Whatever this is with Jess—Heaven, illusion, or something in between—he needs to get back to Dean.

"Jess?"

She turns around, a soft grin on her lips.

"Yeah, baby?"

He lost her once and it almost killed him. Leaving her twice might finally do him in, but until he knows what happened to Dean, he can't stay here.

"I have to go."

She frowns somewhat.

"I know." She admits softly. "Go on." She forces a grin onto her lips. "Go find your brother."

"I'm sorry." He feels compelled to tell her, standing up from the table.

"It's okay." A tear rolls down her cheek. "Go."

He takes one last look at her, committing every gorgeous feature to memory before turning towards the front door and walking out.

It takes all his strength not to turn back.

* * *

"I'll admit it, you exceeded my expectations." The witch mutters as he bursts into another room, an office of sorts. She's seated at a fancy wooden desk and she chuckles as he refuses her gesture to sit down in the chair across from her.

"What are you—?" He starts but she sighs.

"Look, Sam, I'm letting you go back to your brother."

"You're . . . what?" It sounds too good to be true.

"You broke through my illusion for one," She checks a box on a piece of paper and then places it in a pile. "And for another thing, I don't mess around with Hell's golden boy."

That gives him pause.

"What did you just call me?" He growls, trying to mask the fear with anger.

"You heard me," She replies evenly. "You have a destiny, a dark one for sure, blah, blah," She fills out another form, then meets his perplexed gaze. "Look, I've done a lot of things, but even I know not to get involved with Hell's politics."

"What are you talking about?" Sam snaps, rising to his feet and slamming his hands on the desk. "What destiny? What do you know?"

"Do I look like a Magic 8 Ball to you?" She retorts, smirking that same self-assured smirk that Sam wants nothing more than to wipe off her face. "Even if I knew anything, which I don't, I couldn't tell you." She grimaces somewhat. "Politics are politics and they would kill me if I said anything."

"You tried to kill my brother and me, you think I care what happens to you?" He replies calmly and the witch chuckles darkly.

"Goodbye, Sam." She grins sinisterly. "It's been a pleasure."

And with a snap of her fingers, the room around him dissolves to black.

* * *

He wakes up in the hospital.

His chest aches and he can see that he's hooked up to a multitude of monitors and two I.V.s.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice is raw and he's got five o'clock shadow. The dark bags under his eyes only reinforce the fact that he hasn't slept in what must be days.

"Hey." Sam's own voice is dry and he coughs a bit, then winces as pain flares up in his chest. He wants to rub it, but notices a bandage around his whole torso.

"She blasted you," Dean explains curtly. "Bitch stopped your heart."

So, he had been dead, for a bit.

"Sam? You okay?"

 _I don't mess around with Hell's golden boy._

What did that mean? What did she know that he didn't know?

"Sam." Dean places a hand on Sam's shoulder, his green eyes piercing his gaze. "What's wrong?"

He'll have to tell Dean about it, of course.

But for right now, Sam wants nothing more than to get some rest and forget about destiny for a day. Sure, tomorrow, they would have to deal with the fallout of this encounter with the witch, but for right now, all Sam wants to close his eyes, hear his brother's steady breathing and pretend like everything is okay.

So, he lies.

"I'm good, Dean."

Dean smiles, instantly relaxing, and Sam knows he's made the right choice.

"Get some rest, Sammy." Dean takes a seat in the plush chair besides his bedside and he's asleep within minutes.

As Sam shuts his eyes, he tries to block out the witch's words and Jessica's beautiful eyes.

Today, he's just a normal guy.

Tomorrow, he can figure out his destiny. Lying to Dean is the right choice. It allows them both to rest and recover.

In the deep recesses of his mind a voice can't help but whisper that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _This one went in a totally different direction than I intended, but I really do love it. I hope you guys enjoyed it too! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	14. Normalcy

_**Author's Note:**_ _So by my calculations, I'm like six chapters behind where I should be. Sorry about that! Real life got in the way, but the good news is that I will catch up shortly._

 _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **goldfishie1**_ _who requested, "How about teen Sam with a broken leg at Christmas? Dean is the awesome big brother taking care of him." First of all, I hope you are recovering well with your own broken leg! Second, I love this prompt so much! Some fluffy comfort is what we all need this time of year. Please enjoy this chapter! Sam is 14 here so I guess that makes Dean 18?_

* * *

" _You better watch out_

 _You better not cry_

 _You better not pout_

 _I'm telling you why_

 _Santa Claus is coming to town."_

— _Fred Astaire, "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town"_

* * *

In terms of messed up Christmases, this ranks low on the list.

Sure, Dean doesn't like to see Sam laid up for any reason, but for once, it was Sam's own gangly body that had caused his downfall. Literally, down the stairs at the school he'd been going to. Puberty hadn't been too kind of his little brother's frame, causing growth spurts at an alarming rate and giving Sam what Dean was pretty sure amounted to giraffe legs. In fact, when Dean had first gotten the call from the hospital a week ago, he'd laughed a little as the nurse told him that Sam had just tripped over himself.

His brother was like a baby giraffe learning how to walk for the first time.

All things considered though, Sam had been lucky. A broken leg sucked, yeah, but compared to some of the injuries Sam had sustained over the past years hunting, this is nothing.

"Dean." Sam whines from his seat on the couch, his casted leg propped up on a stack of pillows.

Tell that to Sam though.

The kid had stopped whining enough to answer a few terse questions from their father—who had actually come back from a hunt early to check in on Sam's condition, something that reminded them both that this was how their father showed love, not through words, but actions—and then had proceeded to whine ever since John had left to go get some food.

His leg itched. His cast sucked. He was in pain, he was hungry—the list went on and on.

Sure, Dean is pretty patient when it comes to his brother and there's nothing he wouldn't do for Sam, but he's reaching his limit.

It's Christmas, after all. Would it kill Sam to at least crack a smile?  
"Dean." Sam whines again, turning those puppy dog eyes onto his gaze. "I'm bored."

The older Winchester huffs out a laugh and does his best not to snap. He loves Sam, really, but every once in awhile, he needs a break. A chance to clear his head, to just be—

Be what, exactly? Normal?

No, that's what Sam wants to be. That's why Sam and their father butt heads so much because Sam doesn't want to hunt, which is ridiculous if you ask Dean. This is their life—saving people, hunting things, the family business. How could Sam not want to be a part of that?

So, what does Dean want to be?

"Dean." Sam's voice is softer now and the minute change in his tone of voice causes Dean to immediately go to his little brother.

"Yeah, Sammy?" He takes a seat on the couch, noticing the creases of pain lining his little brother's expressions.

"Can I have medicine?" He asks it with the innocence of a four year old, a silent plea in his voice.

"Sorry, kiddo," Dean replies, hating to have to deny Sam this. "Not for a few more hours."

"Okay." Sam sighs, but it's clear that it's not.

Dean waits a few seconds before getting up to go to the fridge, hoping that they still have some of that weird juice that Sam likes. It's not much, but it might help lift Sam's spirits—

Except that he's miserable here.

He wants to be normal—what does that even mean? Is normalcy that great? Would Sam one day get up and walk out the door to be normal?

Dean shakes his head, dispelling the image, before it consumes him. Sam is here, with him, and he's not going anywhere because of that broken leg. That is something Dean can take care of, so he will.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Would you come here for a second?"

"Sure."

Dean is just about to sit down when Sam pulls out a present from seemingly nowhere. It's covered in newspaper, but lovingly wrapped and instantly, Dean loses his voice. He swallows, trying to get rid of the clogged emotion that is holding his voice hostage.

"Sammy, you . . ."

"Merry Christmas, Dean." Sam beams and then adds urgently, "Open it."

So, Dean does.

Underneath all the wrapping paper is a new journal, a real sturdy one with a leather cover.

"Thank you, Sam."

His little brother hugs him, "Merry Christmas, Dean."

And maybe one day, Sam's desire to be normal will outweigh his desire to stay with his family. If that day comes, Dean vows to keep an open mind and to listen.

But it's moments like these, he commits to his memory, just in case of a rainy day.

"Merry Christmas Sammy."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Hopefully that wasn't too sweet for all of you. I hope you enjoyed it! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	15. Hindsight

_**Author's Note:**_ _Our next prompt comes from_ _ **reannablue**_ _who asked for, "Wondering if Sam hits the ditch on the icy roads while out doing something profoundly Christmasy for he and Dean." Wonder no more! Thank you so much for this awesome prompt. Let's set this in season eight. I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

" _I'm dreaming of a white Christmas_

 _Just like the ones I used to know_

 _Where the treetops glisten and children listen_

 _To hear sleigh bells in the snow."_

— _Bing Crosby, "White Christmas"_

* * *

In hindsight, Sam probably shouldn't have done this.

"Dean is going to kill you," Charlie whispers from her shotgun seat, her eyes widen and tinged with fear. "And then he'll totally kill me next. For lending you the car. And you know, lying." She winces. "And letting you drive, are you sure you want to drive because I can—"

Sam manages a shaky smile for the panicked redhead, despite the fact that he feels like he's burning up in this car even though it's below freezing outside. It's taking all his strength not to turn on the air conditioner.

"I'm good, Charlie." He tells her because he does actually feel good. Sure, he's not healthy—not by a long shot—but his grip on the wheel is steady and his vision is clear. That's pretty close to healthy, right?

"Okay, good, because I'm letting Dean get you first while I run away." She chuckles darkly and Sam finds himself laughing along.

Dean will be pissed, no doubt about that. In fact, Sam is expecting an angry phone call from said pissed off older brother any second now. Dean will be back at the bunker soon and he will notice that Sam is gone, along with Charlie's car and he would put the pieces together pretty quickly.

"He's going to kill me." Charlie repeats. "Probably painfully. No, most definitely painfully." She turns to look at him, lips pouting. "This is a really bad idea. We should turn around."

"You said you needed to get Dean a Christmas present too." Sam reminds her calmly.

"Hello, have you met the internet? Amazon Prime is my best friend—"

"What I want you can't get on Amazon." Sam explains calmly.

"Then, what is it?" She presses and he laughs again. She's so much like a child, pestering him with questions, and singing along with the music after she hijacks the radio—she's the little sister he didn't even know he wanted.

"You'll see," He winks at her. "Now, just relax."

"Sure," She murmured, shaking her head. "Easy for you to say. He's probably not going to kill you right away cause you're still sick—"

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Sam can tell that she wishes she could take them.

"It's okay," He tells her quickly, "I know you didn't mean anything by it."

The fact of the matter is that he is sick. Sure, his illness is supernatural in nature, but that doesn't mean that he isn't affected by the illness. He can barely shoot straight sometimes and when his fever spikes, Sam sees things—bad things—and through it all, Dean is by his side.

Dean needs a break.

Hence the present.

"So, what are you getting?" Charlie changes topics and Sam grins.

"Well, it's actually food. This town makes the best—"

In hindsight, he'll recall the exact moment when the wheels loose traction and the car begins to skid. He'll remember Charlie's shriek and the way she grips his shoulder, trying to shield him from the impact that comes right after.

In hindsight, Sam probably shouldn't have done this.

* * *

"Sam?"

He blinks awake and immediately is overwhelmed by a sharp pain exploding in his temple. He groans and shuts his eyes.

"Sam, please, get up."

It's the fear and urgency in Charlie's voice that stirs something within him. With a groan, he opens his eyes once more and pushes himself up, wincing as his breath leaves him from what must be a cracked rib.

Charlie is bleeding from her head and that springs Sam into action. He reaches for her and she shakes her head instead and insists, "It's nothing. Can you walk?"

"You're bleeding." He feels the need to point out and Charlie huffs out a dark chuckle.

"You're the one who got thrown through the windshield." She points out and Sam follows her gaze towards the totaled car and he sees the shattered glass on the snow. "Can you get up? Help should, I hope, be coming."

"Dean will come." Sam reassures her because he knows his brother, knows that Dean will have already tracked his GPS signal and it's only a matter of time until he's here.

"Sam, open your eyes!" Charlie interjects and Sam does so.

Funny, he hadn't even known that he had shut them.

"Charlie, s'okay." His words are slurring now and he should be worried, but he's tired and he wants to sleep. Charlie is a big girl, right? She could take care of herself, just for a little bit, right?

"Sam, please—"

But he can't hear anymore after that.

Just darkness.

* * *

When he wakes up the second time, it's the to the steady beeping of monitors and to the smell of sterile sanitizers. The bright fluorescent lights buzz above him, blinding him as he blinks a few times, trying to clear his vision.

"Sammy?"

He turns his head to the side and meet's those familiar green eyes.

"Hey, Dean."

Dean chuckles a bit, his voice hoarse.

"Sam, I . . ." He swallows a bit, trying to gather his thoughts in order.

That's when Sam remembers—the wreck, the pain and Charlie!

"Charlie!" He sits up quickly and Dean is up and by his side, easing him back down.

"She's fine, Sam," Dean assures him. "Banged her head up a bit, but the doc gave her a bandage and says she's all good."

"She was bleeding," Sam continues urgently. "You have to make sure she gets a CT scan or—"

"Sammy, breathe," Dean soothes in a calm, steady voice. "You're going to make the monitor go nuts and get the nurses in here." Dean places a hand on Sam's chest, directly over his heart. "Breathe."

Sam does so, forces himself to take deliberately slow breaths, trying to calm his racing mind.

"Focus on you." Dean orders quietly. "You cracked three ribs, had to get stiches for two bad cuts on your arms—"

"I'm fine." Sam replies through gritted teeth.

"You took off on me, Sammy," Dean continues. "You wrecked Charlie's car—"

"It was an ice patch. I didn't—"

"React fast enough." His brother completes softly. "Sam, look, I know you don't want to admit it, but you're sick man and being sick doesn't mean you're—"

"I'm useless." Sam completes.

Dean's eyebrows raise, "I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

There's silence for a few minutes.

"Sam," Dean takes a seat in the chair and grins at his brother. "When you were a kid, like three or something, you got the flu, really bad." He runs a hand through his hair. "Dad was on a hunt so we were with Bobby and he didn't realize you were sick until you collapsed." Dean beams. "You were so determined to be fine that you played twice as hard, ran around twice as fast and basically, exhausted yourself."

Sam's brows furrow as he tries to recall this too distant memory. Everything is hazy though and he can't remember anything. It sounds like him though, he'll begrudgingly admit.

"You were in bed for three days, absolutely miserable." Dean continues. "But you got better."

"So, what?" Sam ventures. "I need to stay in bed and I'll get better? Dean, until the Trials are done—"

"You're stubborn, Sam," Dean interjects. "You've always been like that, but I need you to not fight me on this anymore. You're sick, okay? You're not useless. Just let me take care of you until we figure out the next trial—"

"I just want things to be like they were." Sam confesses softly.

The words hang in the air for a few moments.

"I know, Sammy."

But things aren't like they were.

Sam is sick, Dean is running himself ragged, and Charlie was almost collateral damage.

"Knock knock?" Charlie stands in the doorway, a bandage wrapped around her forehead. "Can I come in?"

"Of course." Sam tells her and the redhead enters the room, a tired grin on her lips. "Are you—?"

"Merry Christmas, bitches." She smirks, revealing a small, carefully wrapped present in her hands.

"Charlie, what—?"

"Just don't worry about it." She takes a seat on the edge of Sam's bed and grins. "It's almost Christmas."

"We'll open it back at the bunker." Dean announces and Sam nods his head.

They sit there in comfortable silence, the trio of siblings, this makeshift family. Sure, they have problems to face—fixing Charlie's car, figuring out the Trials, stopping the bad guys.

But in this moment, all that matters is Dean's hand on his wrist, is Charlie's steady voice as she recounts the pitfalls of finding a good gift in a hospital.

They're family, Sam realizes.

And together, they'll get through this.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I love writing family feels a bit too much, I think. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	16. Scream

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **jensensgirl3**_ _who asked for, "My prompt is Sam is hurt on a hunt by protecting Dean from being killed, which pisses off the older brother that Sam would endanger himself. When Dean gets him to the Bunker to fix him up, is when he notice how bad off Sam's injuries are. With Christmas a few days away Dean even being angry with Sam, gives his little brother the Christmas he always wanted with tree, presents, lights and dinner. What hunt and how Sam is injured will leave that to you." One overprotective Dean story coming right up! Thank you so much for this prompt! So I guess let's set this during early season ten, but no spoilers._

* * *

" _Hark how the bells, sweet silver bells_

 _All seem to say throw cares away_

 _Christmas is here bringing good cheer_

 _To young and old, meek and the bold."_

— _Barlow Girl, "Carol of the Bells"_

* * *

Sam knows Dean better than anyone else in the world. As the little brother, the youngest Winchester knows what every movement of Dean's body means, what the inflection of his voice could imply and most definitely, how to read his moods. Most people, for example, might think that when Dean gets furious, he's the type to scream and holler until he's blue in the face.

And sure, they'd be right if Dean was only angry. When angered, Dean could swear as much as a sailor, shout until he was about ready to pass out from oxygen deprivation and even, if called for, throw some punches.

But Sam knows better.

When Dean is furious—past the point of no return—his brother goes silent. He doesn't scream. He doesn't hit things. He just sits there, quietly stewing. Maybe this is his way of preventing himself from saying something he'll regret later, but for Sam, it's the worst punishment in the world. When Dean stops speaking, that's how he knows he screwed up majorly.

And tonight, as they drive back to the Impala, Dean is white-knuckling the steering wheel and saying absolutely nothing.

"Dean—" Sam starts, but his brother shoots him a withering glare and instantly, Sam abandons his sentence. He presses on his side, wincing as the blood begins to soak through the makeshift bandage his brother made from extra material from his shirt.

Sam supposes, maybe, just maybe, Dean is upset at his actions tonight.

But what had his brother expected? For Sam to just sit by and let the wendigo take a bite out of his big brother? Dean was a fool if he even remotely thought that was an option. And really, wouldn't Dean have done the same thing if the situations had been reversed?

They're brothers and they save each other. Sure, maybe it's their Achilles heel, but this is what they do. They protect one another, care for one another. And if Dean thinks that means Sam will just sit by and let a monster get him instead of pushing him out of the way, well, his brother has another thing coming.

So, they drive back to the bunker in silence.

Really awkward, heavy with tension, silence.

Great, Sam thinks, just great.

* * *

Dean patches him up without saying a word.

With a steady hand, his brother stiches up the gaping side wound and wraps a bandage around it, applying just enough pressure to make sure the bleeding stops. Sam wonders if Dean realizes that he may of lied about how bad the cut was. Judging from the fury swirling in those green irises, he guesses that Dean knows.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

His brother doesn't reply.

It's eerie, almost. Sam's pissed off his brother plenty of times before, but he's never remained silent for this long. Usually, after an hour of cooling off, Dean would start screaming, but it's been almost two hours and Dean has said absolutely nothing.

Three hours later, his brother silently checks the bandages on his side to make sure they aren't bleeding through and then slams the door to his room. Sam honestly is at a loss what to do. He's never been in this situation before. Dealing with a shouting Dean, that he could handle. A silent one though? Therein lies the rub.

So, Sam resolves to wait. It's all he can do right now.

Sam just hopes it will be enough.

* * *

It's two days until Christmas and Sam hasn't heard one word from his brother since before the hunt went south almost three days ago. Sure, Sam's tried to initiate a conversation, an argument, something! Yet, Dean has remained silent, just shaking his head and storming off to his room.

Honestly, it's starting to unnerve Sam. He doesn't know how to handle a furious, silent Dean. He's never been in this situation before—unless you counted Stanford, but he'd been angry too so maybe that didn't count—and he's not sure how to fix this.

So, he calls for back up.

 _"Put him on the phone."_ Jody orders, her voice usually hard and unyielding. _"I'll knock some sense into his thick skull."_

Sam supposes he should feel bad for tattling to Jody, but he honestly doesn't know how to get through to his brother. So, he knocks on Dean's door and at Dean's puzzled expression informs him, "Jody wants to talk to you."

Dean takes the phone and the door shuts once more. Sam strains against the door, trying to make out whatever his brother is saying, but to no avail.

When he emerges an hour later, Dean takes one look at him and says—

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

So much for that.

* * *

It's not until Christmas morning that Dean speaks and in typical Winchester fashion, it's not through his words that his message is conveyed.

The bunker is decked out with garland and lights and a fully decorated, real Christmas tree with newspaper wrapped presents under the tree. On the dining room table, there are fresh pancakes and bacon and even fruit.

Dean bought him fruit?

The floorboard creaks and instantly Sam spins around to see his older brother standing there, a small grin tugging on his lips.

"Dean, what is this?"

Dean doesn't say anything—simply crosses to him and throws his arms around him, hugging him, forgiving him, reminding himself that yes, Sam is still alive.

And then, when they finally break apart, Dean beams and says, "Merry Christmas, Sammy."

In that moment, all is right in Sam Winchester's world.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I really didn't want Dean to speak in this chapter. I feel like his feelings could be conveyed more through his actions and I think it came across stronger emotionally through that route. I hope you all enjoyed! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	17. Past, Present, and Future

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm playing catch up today. I think I need to post five chapters to get caught up? Anyways, if you're subscribed, you'll probably get a lot of notifications today. Also, I just want to thank you guys for all the support! Writing every day can be hard, but you guys just encourage me so much! I appreciate it!_

 _Our first prompt comes from_ _ **Hyb108**_ _who asked for, "How about a "Ghosts of Christmas" type of story, set during either Season 5 or 8, where the boys are at odds. The ghosts torture Dean by hurting Sam and make him realize that he still cares for his brother? An amulet fix-it would not go unappreciated." I hope this is somewhat what you wanted. I was a bit confused by the ghosts of Christmas part but I did my best! This is set in season five. Please enjoy!_ _ **Trigger warning for torture. If this bothers you, do not read this chapter.**_

* * *

" _God rest you merry, gentlemen_

 _Let nothing you dismay."_

— _Bing Crosby, "God Rest You Merry Gentlemen"_

* * *

"If you're trying to get me to say yes, it won't happen." Dean growls as the blindfold is taken off of him. His eyes struggle to adjust to the dim surroundings, but soon he can faintly make out rows of boxes. He struggles against the ropes binding him to the chair, but they bite into his skin and he winces.

"Yes?" A voice echoes, perplexed.

Suddenly, a woman emerges from the darkness, her hair wavy and sparkling like candlelight. Her dress is dated—long enough to touch the floor, with lace and long sleeves—and as she walks towards him, she seems to illuminate the whole warehouse. Her emerald eyes sparkle with curiosity as she grins at him.

"Rest assured, Dean Winchester," She starts and her voice is as gentle as wave lapping at the shore. "I am not here to meddle with the affairs of angels." She places a hand on his shoulder and it feels him with reassuring warmth.

"Who are you?" He asks, unsure of what exactly is going on. Last thing he remembered, he'd been fighting with Sam—again—and then he'd stormed out to go to a bar and then . . . nothing.

"Me?" She says with a wry grin. "I am here to help you." She claps her hands and another chair appears and Dean can make out the slumped form tied to it.

"Sam!" The older brother shouts. Then, to the ethereal woman, "Let me go you—!"

"Mortals are all the same, aren't they?" A voice booms and a gigantic man with flowing red hair and a green, fur-trimmed robe enters. He regards Dean for a moment and then laughs heartily, the crown of ivy in hair almost sliding down from the sheer force of it. "They never understand our ways."

"Indeed," The woman answers quietly. "We must reason with them. This one especially," She points to Dean. "His past has not been the most pleasant of ones."

The man shakes his head and adds ruefully, "That does not excuse his present actions."

"No, of course." She replies softly. "What say you, old friend?" She turns to the darkness and Dean squints, trying to see whom she is talking to.

What can only be described as the stereotypical grim reaper—black robe and all—materializes beside her. Dean can't make out his face or what he is saying, but the woman's brow furrows and she finally says, "If we all agree then, let us proceed."

"Would someone please tell me what the fuck is going on!" Dean snaps and that gets their attention.

The woman shoots him a pained smile before kneeling to meet his gaze. Taking a steadying breath in, she begins, "Dean Winchester, know you what time it is?"

"Time?" Dean repeats, perplexed by her question.

"The day, mortal!" The man shouts.

"Christmas Eve." Dean answers easily. He'd been expecting to spend it in a bar after Sam and him had their fight. The universe apparently had other plans.

"Aye," The man continues, his gaze narrowed. "Christmas Eve."

"Dean Winchester," The woman places a creamy white hand on his cheek and grimaces. "We are spirits that guide those who lose sight of what is important."

"Ghosts of Christmas are we." The man informs him quietly.

"And you have fallen off the path and lost sight of what is important." She informs him.

"Off the path?" Dean repeats, confused. "What do you mean?"

The woman shares a look with her compatriots that speaks volumes. With a terse nod of her head, the man goes to Sam and taps him on the shoulder.

"Dean?" His brother is instantly awake now and alert.

"I'm here, Sammy!" Dean tells him as he watches the blindfold come off Sam. "It's going to be okay."

"You show concern for him now," The female ghost states. "But you have not before. You have allowed anger and resentment to take over your heart."

The man has a knife in his hands now, a frown tugging at his lips. He meets Dean's gaze once more.

"Rest assured," He begins. "We bear you nor your brother ill-will, yet this is the only way to save you."

He places the tip of the knife against Sam's shoulder.

Dean tenses.

"You must remember," The woman urges. "You must recall why you care for your brother so."

"And if you not do so on your own," The man begins, foreboding. "We shall aid you."

And that's when he plunges the knife into Sam's shoulder.

* * *

Dean can't handle this.

His brother is being tortured right in front of him and there's nothing he can do. With wide eyes, all he can do is shout and struggle and try to keep Sam conscious as too much blood continues to flow out of his brother.

The ghosts, for their part, are quiet. They do not seem to be enjoying this and at one point the woman even goes to Sam and whispers something in his ear and then nods at her partner to hold his blade.

"Dean Winchester," She turns to him, voice pleading. "Do you understand yet?"

"Leave my brother alone." His voice is hoarse from all the shouting and he can only imagine how bad Sam is off. He needs to get his brother to a hospital and then apologize for everything.

Deep down, he knew—he always knew—that Sam wasn't to blame for the impending apocalypse. But he had allowed anger to cloud his judgment. Blaming Sam had been the easier option than owning up to the fact that he was scared—scared of losing his brother, of losing this fight.

But now, seeing Sam's chest rise and fall much too quickly to be healthy, he wants nothing more than to throw his arms around his brother and beg for his forgiveness.

"There." The woman's eyes flash and immediately, Dean is freed from his bonds, as is Sam.

"Sammy!" Dean shouts, pulling his brother into his arms and trying to assess the damage without panicking too much.

"Remember, Dean Winchester," The man's voice booms. "Remember what you have learned this night and keep it your heart always."

"May you both be filled with the spirit of Christmas." The woman smiles.

"And for what we had to do," The man continues, grimacing. "You have our apologies."

Then, in a flash of light, Dean finds himself standing in the middle of an E.R.

And the ghosts are gone.

* * *

It's not until the next morning, after Sam has been released, and they're back at the motel that Dean finally gets the chance to apologize. He doesn't usually do these heart-to-heart moments, but after the trauma of yesterday, he knows that he must explain to his brother what he means to him.

Sam, for his part, stays silent as he listens. Then, at the end, smiles and tells his brother, "It's okay, Dean. I forgive you."

It's like a heavy burden has been lifted from the oldest Winchester's shoulders and he beams.

* * *

Later, when Sam is watching TV, Dean goes through his stuff, he finds the amulet on top of his notebook. He does a double take at first, but when he picks it up, he can hear the ghost's laughter ringing in his ears and he knows they must have had something to do with this.

So, he puts on the amulet.

And when Sam sees it, Dean knows all is right with his world once more.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I really struggled writing this one, but I think it turned out well. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	18. Stress

_**Author's Note:**_ _Our next prompt comes from_ _ **JCxXX**_ _who requested, "Sam's feeling down after curing himself from the Infection (s11) he had and thinking about the holidays is the last thing on his list. He's too focused on saving people from the infection until Dean reminds him to learn how to R and R a little." Oh wow, this prompt is super current! Forgive me if I mess something up, I haven't seen all the episodes of season 11 yet, but I shall do my best with this story. Thank you so much for this fun prompt! Please enjoy._

* * *

" _The mood is right, the spirits up_

 _We're here tonight and that's enough_

 _Simply having a wonderful Christmastime."_

— _Paul McCartney, "Wonderful Christmastime"_

* * *

It's supposed to be Sam's favorite time of year.

All the twinkling lights, the full fat eggnog, and the cheesy Hallmark movies—these are all things that Dean knows his little brother enjoys. Yet, Sam seems content to sit in front of his computer day by day and devote himself to research. In fact, Dean hasn't even seen Sam so much as cracked a smile since the Darkness descended.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" His brother is focused on some website, his eyes scanning each and every line and parsing for meaning.

"You want to get some air?" Dean's pretty sure Sam hasn't left the bunker for at least a week and once his brother gets absorbed in something, the sooner he got pulled out of it, the better for everyone.

"Nope." Sam scrolls down, his brow furrowing. He types a few things and is soon whisked away to another website.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean tries to get his voice light, his tone carefree, but he is worried about Sam. His little brother could fall into obsession if he wasn't pulled back, especially if he felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "It's Christmas time."

Sam doesn't say anything.

"Sam, come on," Dean insists softly. "You got to take a break sometime."

"If I take a break," Sam starts, not even looking away from the screen. "More people are going to get infected. Is that what you want?"

"Of course not—" He replies and then a smirk tugs at his brother's lips.

Checkmate.

"Then, I need to work."

Dean doesn't have anything to say to that.

* * *

He tries subtly first.

He decorates the bunker, buys a tree and adorns that with lights, and then blasts Christmas music during the day. He deliberately leaves TVs on Hallmark and tries to tempt his little brother out with food. He bakes pies and cakes and leaves them out, hoping that Sam will get up to take a bite.

He doesn't though.

So, Dean moves onto step two: brute force.

He pulls the laptop away from Sam and hides it.

Sam is, needless to say, not amused.

"What the hell are you doing, Dean?" He huffs and Dean has to admit, his brother could be pretty intimidating when angry, what with his tall stature and the way his glare looks. Dean is; however, immune and so he stands his ground.

"You are taking a break." He answers simply.

"Like hell I am!" Sam retorts. "Give me my laptop." Sam holds his hands out expectantly.

"No." Dean shakes his head.

"No?" Sam echoes.

"You heard me, Sammy."

"People are going to die unless you give me my laptop!" He shrieks and Dean forces himself to stand firm.

"Sam, you're running yourself ragged. You won't take a break, fine, but I'm making you."

Sam sputters for a few moments, then shakes his head and marches to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Dean smiles somewhat.

He just needs to wait now.

* * *

Sam re-emerges the next morning, laptop in hand.

Dean silently curses himself for not thinking of a better hiding place, but to his surprise, Sam simply plugs it in and then comes to sit at the kitchen counter.

"Look, about yesterday—" His brother starts, but Dean holds his hand up for silence.

"No need to apologize, Sam. I get how important this is."

Sam smiles sadly at that and then says, "I just . . . I don't want to let anyone down."

Dean reaches out and rubs those comforting circles on his wrist, trying to reassure him. Finally, after a few moments, he insists, "You're not letting anyone down. You're the best researcher I know. If there's something out there, you'll find it, but not if you run yourself into the ground."

Sam processes that for a few moments and then nods.

"So, cheesy Hallmark movie?"

Sam beams.

"Do you even have to ask?"

Dean just laughs.

And sure, there's still the Darkness lurking out there, but for right now, all that matters is the smile on his little brother's face.

That is, after all, what he fights to protect.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I love this chapter! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	19. Do Over

_**Author's Note:**_ _Slowly but surely I'm catching up! Just a friendly reminder that I'm not taking prompts anymore. I closed them at the beginning of this month._

 _Next prompt comes from_ _ **RRachael**_ _who requested, "A tweaked version of mystery spot where Sam and Dean switch spots but instead of Sam dying in random ways they go back and relive old cases and instead of them succeeding, Sam dies. Around the holidays Dean and Sam could investigate a killing easy case (werewolf, ghost, etc.) but when they get to the scene nothing's there. However you want them to meet and vanquish the trickster but brotherly holiday fluff at the end would be awesome." Oh wow, this is a great prompt that would make an amazing multi-chapter story! Sadly, right now I only have time to write a one-shot. I hope it does it justice! So, I guess we'll set this in season three as well. Enjoy!_

* * *

" _I'll have a blue Christmas without you_

 _I'll be so blue just thinking about you_

 _Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree_

 _Won't be the same dear, if you're not here with me."_

— _Elvis Presley, "Blue Christmas"_

* * *

It comes out of nowhere, in the middle of some routine ghost hunt, in a haunted house of some no-name town.

One second, Sam is salting the cursed artifact and the next . . .

Sam is dead, lying in a pool of blood, his eyes open and glassy.

Dean doesn't even have to process it before the room goes white and he feels like he's falling down into an abyss and then there's—

Nothing.

* * *

He opens his eyes and finds himself in a familiar motel room.

"Hey," Sam calls from the other bed, an easy going grin on his lips, "Sleep well?"

Dean swallows, trying to clear the vision of his baby brother's broken body from his mind. It had just been a dream—a horribly vivid dream—but a dream all the same.

"Fine," He lies, getting up, running a hand through his hair, "Find anything?" He glances around the motel room, wondering why this décor is so familiar to him. Then again, he's stayed in so many motel rooms; they probably all just blend together.

"Aside from the fact Bloody Mary is real?"

Dean blinks a few times, unsure of what he just heard.

"Blood Mary?" Dean echoes.

"Yeah," Sam nods his head. "Remember? All the girls who keep bleeding—"

"From their eyes," The eldest Winchester completes. "Yeah, I know. We ganked her."

Sam tilts his head to the side in confusion, "Dean, no we didn't. We haven't even found her yet."

He spies the date on a news report softly playing on the television. It sucks the breath right out of him. He has no other explanation for it either. He's in the past—two years in the past to be exact.

"Dean?" Sam rises from his seat and places a strong hand on his brother's back. "You okay?"

"Yeah," He's lying through his teeth. "Everything's fine."

Judging from the look in his baby brother's eyes, Sam doesn't believe it, but he doesn't press him. He just goes back to his seat and begins reciting facts about the case that Dean already knows about.

Dean needs to get to the bottom of this—fast.

* * *

When they go to confront Bloody Mary, everything occurs just like he remembered it. He's able to anticipate his enemy's next move and with a smirk, Dean actually thinks this might be his easiest hunt yet.

But then Sam is bleeding from the eyes and everything happens in slow motion. He's sprinting towards his brother, crowbar in hand to shatter the mirror, only he's too late.

Sam bleeds out.

"Sammy!" He screams, his heart tearing into a million pieces, but there's nothing he can do.

Light blinds him and he feels himself fall back into the welcoming abyss.

* * *

He sits straight up in bed and his eyes dart to where Sam is seated.

"Hey," Sam greets, a bit concerned by his brother's appearance. "Everything okay? Bad dream?"

But Dean can't manage to say anything because the grief is still too fresh and it's boiling up within him and he can barely contain it.

"Dean?" Sam shuts his computer and comes towards him.

The older brother just embraces his brother, holding him tightly.

Sam is alive.

He is alive.

* * *

It doesn't take him long to figure out he's trapped in a time loop, relieving he and Sam's biggest hits so to speak. Only, this time, instead of killing the monster, the monster always kills Sam. Violently. Brutally. And no matter what Dean does, he can't stop it and that in itself is enough to drive the oldest Winchester up a wall.

It's his job to protect Sam and right now, he's failing miserably.

And no matter what he does—keeping Sam away from the hunt, trying to drive away from the hunt, stalling—it always ends the same way.

Sam, in a pile of blood, with glassy eyes staring upwards into nothing.

It's Dean's worst nightmare and he can't figure out how to stop it.

* * *

It's thirteen revised cases later that they end up in a snowy cave tracking the ghost of a hunter of all things (an animal hunter, not a ghost one) and it's supposed to be an easy hunt. At least, the first time around it was easy, but now, Dean isn't too sure. He's given Sam a gun that he checked three times to make sure it wouldn't jam—two cycles ago, that's how Sam died when the gun failed him—and Dean is careful to make sure he's close to his brother's side, ready to react at a moment's notice.

He's not going to let Sam died one more time on his watch.

"Would you relax?" Sam tells him softly, a smirk on his lips. "You're freaking me out over here."

"I'm fine." Dean says through clenched teeth.

"No, actually," Another voice pipes up and Dean spins around, ready to fire off a shot. "You're not."

A woman is leaning against a tree, her auburn hair blowing slightly in the wind. She's dressed in one of those puffy winter coats and her hands are covered with white mittens. Still, she smiles like a cat that has caught the canary and it sends a chill down Dean's spine.

"Who are you?" He asks and he can hear Sam take the safety off his gun as he backs his big brother up.

"Me?" She echoes. "I'm the one who wanted you to experience your greatest hits." She winks at him and he fires his gun without waiting for more.

"Ouch." She pouts as she re-directs the bullets to the tree next to her. "Wanna try that again?"

"What are you?" Sam hisses and the woman cackles.

"Sammy, this is a private conversation so why don't you zip it?" She snaps her fingers and instantly, Sam is tossed against another tree, rendering him unconscious.

"You're going to regret that!" Dean growls, knowing he needs a strategy to kill this thing. Bullets wouldn't work so he needed to find something else.

"Let's talk Dean, okay?" She takes a few deliberate steps towards him and he stands his ground, gun aimed for her heart even though he knows it won't do any good.

"Why did you put me in this loop?" He questions and she shrugs.

"Orders, really," She answers. "A big bad trickster came to town and told me to do it. He said you needed to learn to let go and really, watching you, I can see why. You are way too uptight—"

"You're a witch then." He deduces and she claps her hands.

"Bingo! I knew you were smart."

"But witches don't take orders—"

She winces a bit, rubbing the back of her neck, "Well, this trickster was very persuasive."

"Let me out of the loop." He orders and she sighs, long and drawn out.

"Look, bear with me, okay?" She begins, now standing face to face with him, the barrel of his gun digging into her chest. "I have to say a few things on his behalf and then poof, we both go free."

"What kind of things?" He asks and she pulls out a few notecards.

"Okay, let's see here," She scans the cards. "You're going to Hell and you need to accept the fact that Sam will be on his own. You can't protect him forever. He will die—"

Dean's heart sputters; his mouth goes dry.

"Stop." He interjects, though it is without any force. He doesn't know who this trickster is, but they know about him—his fears, his greatest weakness, his destiny.

"You saved him once, but you can't do that again. Let Sam go—"

"I said stop!" He roars, but the witch ignores him.

"—and understand that you can't protect him forever. Sooner or later, Sam will die." She glances up from the notecard. "And that's it! Okay, so, I'd say it was nice meeting you, but since you tried to shoot me, not really." She snaps her fingers once more and disappears.

The light returns and before Dean can question anything, he is falling once more.

* * *

And then he's back in his time, back in the motel room that started it all, with Sam stringing up Christmas decorations.

"Hey," His little brother greets with a smile. "You have a good nap?"

But instantly, Dean is up and is throwing his arms around his little brother, hugging him way too tightly.

Sam is alive.

Dean still has time.

"Dean" Sam's lowered his voice now, concern pooling in those puppy dog eyes of his. "Everything okay?"

"Never better." Dean tells him and for once, it's the truth. "Hey, I was thinking, it's almost Christmas, why don't we go somewhere nice for dinner tonight?"

Sam raises an eyebrow.

"Really?" He questions. "You never want to—"

"Yeah, well, grab your stuff and let's go. I think I saw a steakhouse a few miles down the road."

Sam places a hand on his brother's forehead and then smirks.

"No fever."

"Ha ha, funny, let's go."

Sam does as he's told and grabs his stuff and Dean wishes he could slow this moment down, could etch it into his memory.

He's going to die in a few months and his brother will be alone. There's nothing Dean can do about that—it was his choice to make the deal and one he made willingly.

But it doesn't mean he's ready.

He wants to stay by Sam's side, wants to protect his brother, wants to laugh with him.

But a few more moments are all he has so Dean wants to make them count.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Sam presses and Dean just grins.

"I'm good, Sammy, I promise."

And together, they walk out the door, ready to forget their troubles if only for the moment.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:** I love any type of time loop fic so this was a blast to write. I hope you enjoyed! Please review if you have a moment. _


	20. Guilt

_**Author's Note:**_ _Merry Christmas Eve! I just want to let you all know that I have extra prompts so this collection will probably finish by the end of the month. More hurt!Sam to get you through until the New Year._

 _The next prompt is from_ _ **edolphin**_ _who requested, "It's set in season 8 a few days before Christmas. Dean is angry with Sam for some reason (it can be because of Purgatory or just an everyday irritation) and doesn't notice that Sam has been injured by the monster of the week until they get back to the bunker and Sam collapses. Dean is guilty for treating Sam so badly and he takes care of his little brother. In the end they have a happy little Christmas. Oh, and I would prefer it to just be Sam and Dean, but I'm not too picky." For your first prompt ever, this is really good! And no worries, just Sam and Dean it is. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _Christmas night,_

 _Another fight,_

 _Tears we cried,_

 _A flood_

 _Got all kinds of poison in, of poison in my blood."_

— _Coldplay, "Christmas Lights"_

* * *

Here's the thing you've learned since you came back from Purgatory. The world is way simpler than you remember it. In Purgatory, you went to bed hungry, you never slept fully for fear of attack and you were always on your feet, fighting, running, and killing those things that got in your way.

Here though, back in the "real" world, you get food that tastes like ash in your mouth, you sleep on a mattress that supports your tired body and you don't feel the need to constantly sharpen your weapons.

"We're safe, Dean." Sam tells you softly, a week after you get back. He knows you're on edge and while he doesn't know exactly what you experienced—or who you lost along the way—he still knows how to figure out what's troubling you and try to fix it.

Too bad he didn't care enough to get you out of Purgatory.

No, Sam chose the girl and the "normalcy" he's always wanted over you. And though you try to rationalize it, try to chalk it up to Sam being certainty you were truly gone this time, you cannot find it in yourself to forgive him.

If it were Sam, you would've done everything in your power to save him. But that's the difference between the two of you, isn't it? You'll sacrifice everything for Sam and Sam just . . . he wants to be normal.

The white picket fence. The beautiful wife. The 2.5 kids.

That's what he wants and to be honest, you don't fit into that picture.

You've never fit into that role.

"Hey." Sam calls to you as you pace around the motel room. It's too small, the walls closing in on you and you want nothing more than to run, to get into your baby and put this motel in your rearview mirror and never look back.

"Hey," Sam tries again, shooting you those puppy dog eyes. "You okay?"

You're not really. But you wouldn't expect him to understand what you've been through, what you continue to go through with each moment that passes.

He left you to rot for a girl.

"I'm fine."

Sam doesn't buy it, but he's wise enough not to say anything.

And you just continue to pace.

* * *

One of Dad's cardinal rules was never to go on a hunt if you have bad blood with your partner.

"It'll make you sloppy," Your father would lecture you "And being sloppy gets you killed."

But if you have to spend one more second cooped up in the bunker, you will lose it. So, you scour the newspapers and find an easy hunt a couple miles down the road and against Dad's advice, you get Sam in the car and you go.

You drive in silence and even though it's been awhile since Sam hunted, he's not rusty so you feel somewhat confident as you get out of the car and move towards the creepy, snow covered forest that lies before the two of you.

It's just a wendigo.

You can do this one in your sleep and honestly, it feels good to hunt something again—to be the one to give chase rather than be chased. In Purgatory, you'd been regarded as weak by all the other creatures.

Now, you can finally prove them wrong.

"How do you want to do this?" Sam questions him and you do your best to shove your irritation down and focus on the task at hand.

But the anger still lurks within you, bubbling up, waiting to explode. You resent Sam—the way he's able to piece his life together so easily, the way he can just snap his fingers and boom, you don't figure into his life anymore.

It's not fair.

"Spilt up." You growl and Sam balks.

"But Dean—"

"Now!" You bark.

And reluctantly, your brother does as he's told.

* * *

You return to the bunker a few hours, a little bruised and banged up, but feeling fulfilled.

The wendigo is dead and you killed it. The rush that came with alighting it on fire is one that won't leave you for a while and it calms your nerves somewhat. You are the hunter now, not the prey. You can survive.

You will not let Cas' sacrifice be in vain.

Sam, for his part, is moving sluggishly, but you chalk that up to a few extra hits by the wendigo since your brother found it first. He'll walk it off and be fine in the morning.

"You okay?" Still, you feel compelled to ask, some long dormant feeling stirring within you.

"Fine." Sam says through gritted teeth and you, against your better judgment, take him at his word. You're covered in mud anyways and you quickly duck into the bathroom, ready to get the grime off of you.

The thud you hear isn't all that dramatic, but instantly, you throw back open the door and the sight you sees tears all the oxygen out of your lungs.

"Sam!"

And all the fear, the grief, the terror that you bottled up and forced down within you splits open like a dam and you rush to your baby brother's unconscious form lying on the floor.

"Sammy, c'mon." You check his pulse and while it's there, it's weak and irregular. There's something you're missing, something causing Sam this much pain—there, you tear open his shirt and see a gash so deep and it's no wonder Sam didn't bleed out.

"Sam, don't do this." And you just stewed in the car, ignoring all the warning signs while your little brother slipped away from your grasp and now, now it might be—

"No." You are Dean Winchester and you have overcome too much just to lose your little brother now.

You will save him.

And then you will forgive him.

Because, without Sam, you're not really you, are you?

"Hang on, Sammy." You tell him softly, brushing some hair out of his face.

You're going to fix this.

* * *

You've patched the wound the best you can.

The bunker came equipped with some, albeit dated, medical equipment, and the two of you keep extra blood on hand just in case of emergencies like this, but now, all you can do is wait and see.

Sam is sleeping peacefully now, but you know you won't be getting some rest until he opens his eyes.

This is, after all, your fault.

Sam, for whatever reason, made his choice. You have to accept that and forgive him. Because your actions tonight were unacceptable and it almost led to your baby brother bleeding out in your car.

And why? Cause you were too angry to listen.

Never again.

"I'm sorry, Sammy." You rub a circle on his wrist, savoring the feeling of his pulse—strong and steady—underneath your fingers.

Sam's alive, you have to take comfort in that.

And then, you have to make amends.

* * *

"I'm fine, Dean." Your brother sighs as you hand him yet another blanket to put on top of him.

It's been four days since you almost lost him, since you realized the true extent of your actions. You've calmed down since then, actually starting to relax as Sam gets better and now, you're making amends.

"You didn't have to do all this." Sam gestures around to the Christmas decorations you've strung up around the bunker, to the tree you managed to decorate and to the presents under it.

"Yeah, Sammy, I did." Your voice is rough and truth be told, you're kind of tired, but you can't sleep, not yet, not until you've gotten his forgiveness.

"Dean," Sam seems to know, as usual, what you need. "It wasn't your fault."

"I blamed you, Sam," You confess quietly. "For Purgatory, for Amelia and—"

"I should've looked harder," Sam replies and that takes you aback somewhat. "But Dean, I was alone. Bobby was gone, you and Cas were all I had when and you two were gone I—" Sam swallows nervously. "I wanted to die."

That's like ice down your veins.

"Sam, no—"

"Hitting Amelia's dog saved me," He continues. "It gave me a purpose." He meets your gaze. "I am sorry for not looking hard enough—"

There are a lot of things words can do. They can help hurt or heal, but you've never been the type to rely on them.

So, gently, you reach out and hug your brother, conveying everything and more, things that not even words can get across.

And when you let go and he beams, you finally feel that weight you've been carrying around from Purgatory start to lift.

That's when it hits you—you are going to be okay.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Wanted to spice things up with 2_ _nd_ _POV and I really love the way it turned out. I hope you did as well. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	21. Auld Lang Syne

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm back! I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas, if you celebrate that. I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this collection. It's such a blast to write! I'm not sure how many prompts I have left, but it will be enough to finish off this year with a hurt!Sam bang._

 _The next prompt comes from_ _ **Shannanigans**_ _who requested, "I'd love to see a story set in season 1. How about New Year's Eve after losing Jess? Sam is terribly sad and surrounded by revelers and drinks. Perhaps he overdoes it and ends up in the ER on the worst possible night (trust me, I speak from experience!) Awesome Dean is awesome, of course!" Indeed, awesome!Dean is great! I haven't written a New Year's story in a long time and of course, Sam/Jess is one of my favorite things to write, so thank you for the awesome prompt! Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _When the bells all ring and the horns all blow_

 _And the couples we know are fondly kissing_

 _Will I be with you or will I be among the missing?"_

— _Diana Krall, "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve"_

* * *

Sam shouldn't be here.

This is, after all, a bad idea.

Around him, the patrons in the bar continue their revelry, laughing and joking. They have something to celebrate, be it love, newfound friendship, or just the joy of being young and being alive.

What does Sam have to celebrate? Being back in the hunting fold? Watching his girlfriend—his would-be fiancée—burn to death on the ceiling of their apartment?

He takes a long sip of the beer in front of him—his second tonight—and wonders why the hell he's even here. He'd wanted to stay home and bury himself in research or even work on finding their MIA father, but no, Dean had put his foot down and before Sam knew it, he was being dragged to the local bar.

And here he is.

Dean is mixing it up with the crowd, of course. His brother has always managed to fit in no matter where they go. It's a talent of his, to be able to blend into whatever situation their job required. Dean has the confidence to back up his lies and sometimes, Sam wonders if he even believes parts of them too.

Right now, Dean is flirting shamelessly with a brunette in a skimpy dress that barely hides her panties. She's the kind of girl Dean likes—flirty, brash, loud, and confident. His brother, whether he will admit it or not, always searches for an equal when it comes to finding a girl to hook up with. A female Dean, so to speak, and as Sam watches her bat her eyes and his brother laugh, he finds himself feeling hollow.

He shouldn't be here.

He should be at the motel, avoiding all this.

But he is here, and there is a beer in front of him, and no, he doesn't believe in drowning his sorrows, but maybe just this once he can try.

So he downs the rest of the beer and orders another one.

He just needs to escape.

Drinking seems like the logical choice.

* * *

Drinking is the worst choice he's ever made.

The nurses are all regarding with hard and unyielding gazes, whispering under their breaths about how yet another "stupid drunk partier" has wandered into their E.R. needing their help. They're stretched too thin already, he can tell, listening to slurred shouts and occasional bangs from the waiting room down the hall from his room.

He's sobered up now—having your stomach pumped can do that to you—and he's alone. He didn't realize how much he had to drink until after Dean left the bar with that girl—Loretta? Lauren?—and left him alone on tonight of all nights.

But he's not blaming Dean.

No, he made the choice to keep drinking, to push past his limit, in the hopes of dulling the pain created by her death. It was foolish of him. If Dad were here, he'd give him one hell of lecture about how stupid he'd been, but right now, Sam just wants to curl up in the fetal position and will himself to sleep.

Because Jessica is dead.

She's never going to tease him about him falling asleep at his desk again. She will never bake him chocolate chip cookies again. He'll never get to hold her in his arms again and wonder just what he did to get an angel like her in his life.

She's dead and it's his fault.

"Mr. Hagar?" A nurse stands in the doorway, her eyes more sympathetic than most. She carries his chart and she glances over it before coming to stand by his side. "Mr. Hagar, I'm Nurse Jenner."

He inclines his head ever so slightly in greeting.

"Mr. Hagar, you seem like you're more intelligent than some of the people tonight who have been admitted for over intoxication." She winks at him. "So, I have to ask this, why did you drink tonight?"

To forget.

To dull his pain.

To try and buy himself a few moments to delude himself into thinking he was back at Stanford, with her, being normal, just the two of them.

"I just . . . I lost someone."

She sighs softly and places his chart down before placing a warm hand on his shoulder. Calmly, she starts, "Mr. Hagar, I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but drinking won't change anything. It won't help you to forget. It won't dull the pain." Grimly, she adds, "If you push it too far, it will kill you. Just like it almost did to you tonight."

"I know." He replies.

"I know you know," She retorts. "I just want to make sure you won't pull a stunt like this again." She's very matronly, this nurse. She's going out of her way to check in on him and for what reason? Surely none that would benefit her.

"I won't."

"I had a son about your age," Nurse Jenner starts softly, her gaze misting. "He was a smart boy, going to be a doctor, but he started drinking and well . . ." She wrings her hands and chuckles nervously. "He was addicted to it, different than you I know, but it was only after he died that I found out why he started drinking." She meets his gaze then, emerald eyes gazing into his soul. "He was afraid of failing. He felt like he couldn't talk to me about it. Drinking was his way of gaining control."

"I'm sorry." Sam feels compelled to say, but she shrugs.

"Do you have someone to talk to, Mr. Hagar?"

He doesn't hesitate before answering, "Yeah."

She smiles then and nods, "Good." Going to the doorway, she glances back at him for a second, almost about to say something, but she thinks better of it and leaves.

"Sammy!" Dean bursts into the room, out of breath and Sam is instantly jolted awake. "Jesus, fucking, Christ! Why didn't you call me?"

"Dean, I—" Sam doesn't really have a reason to explain that. He had only regained consciousness a few hours ago and he'd been so wrapped up in his head, it hadn't even occurred to him to call his big brother.

Dean drags a chair over to Sam's bedside and his gaze narrows, "Sam, I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I took you out to the bar. You weren't ready—"

"Dean, no—" Sam protests.

"And then I left you to go hook up with some chick—"

Dean's spiraling and Sam only has a few seconds to stop the shame spiral before it consumes his brother.

"Hey." Sam grabs his brother's wrist within his grasp. "It's okay."

"You're in the hospital," Dean scoffs. "How is that okay?"

"I'm in the hospital because I made a mistake." Sam insists. "I mean, I'm not a kid—"

"Are you okay?" Dean questions suddenly and Sam smiles at his big brother.

He thought, after Jessica, he was alone in this world. He assumed he would waste away because how could he live with himself after what she had been through? He didn't deserve to.

But Dean is here, with him, and for a moment, it finally feels like his whole world is clicking back into place.

Jessica is dead and gone, but Dean won't leave him.

Dean will help him.

"Are you okay?" Dean repeats and Sam holds off on his usual lie.

"I . . ." The pinprick of tears burns his eyes. "I miss Jess."

It's the first time he's said that since she's died and it opens up the floodgates. Sobs wrack him, shaking his body to its core and before he knows what's happening, Dean has him, in his arms, and he's whispering reassurances in his ear.

Maybe . . . maybe there will always be a gaping hole in his heart from Jessica being torn away from him.

But if anyone can help him heal, it's Dean.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean whispers. "We'll figure this out."

And Sam believes him.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _This turned out way differently than I expected, but I really like it! I hope you did too. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	22. What If

_**Author's Note:**_ _The next prompt comes from_ _ **SuperVikinggirl**_ _who requested, "It's Christmas Eve and Sam and Dean are both injured in a hunt. Sam's pretty bad off and Dean just can't carry him to the Impala, so they have to wait for help and pray it comes. They know they'll never make it home in time to celebrate Christmas, if they even make it out alive. In the mean time they distract each other by telling each other how they'd really like to celebrate Christmas if hunting could pause over the holidays, culminating in Sam spilling to Dean what his Christmas present is." This prompt is so adorable as well as a bit tense! I love it. So, let's set this in season two. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _Do you see what I see?_

 _A star, a star_

 _Dancing in the night_

 _With a tail as big as a kite."_

— _Carrie Underwood, "Do You Hear What I Hear?"_

* * *

"Jesus fucking Christ." Dean huffs out as he leans against the cracked wall of the formerly haunted house. His head is killing him, the room is spinning around him and he's pretty sure he's bleeding from some source unknown. He can barely stand—no, he actually can't stand, that's how he ended leaning against the wall—and he's actually the one who's better off.

Sam is still unconscious, blood dripping from his nose, though whether that's from the vision he got that sent them here or from being thrown into a mirror, Dean doesn't know.

"Sam," He drags himself to his brother's side, groaning and wincing all the way and resisting every urge to shake his brother, checks his pulse instead. "Sammy, c'mon, rise and shine."

Dean needs an exit route and a plan, but he's having a really hard time focusing on anything really. Concussions really could do a number on someone and if he tries to hard on focus on any one thing for too long, it'll just vanish from his mind, like it never existed. He needs to do something . . .

Like call for help.

He still has phone on him, thank God, and Bobby shouldn't be too far away, maybe an hour or so. All he needs to do is call for backup and soon, he and Sam would be patched up and as good as new.

"Damn."

His phone is shattered, probably thanks to the same throw that resulted in his splitting headache.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He mutters, trying to think of something else. He needs to get up. He has to get up and get Sam into the car and then the two of them could go get help. He just needs to stand up—

As soon as he starts to move, the room lurches violently and immediately a wave of nausea assaults him. No, moving isn't going to be an option. He's going to need to catch his breath and try to regroup.

"D'n?" Sam blinks, his hazel eyes cloudy and unfocused.

"Sammy," Dean tries to keep the concern out of his voice. He needs to remain calm. "You okay?"

Sam's not, that much is obvious. There's too much blood coming from his nose and not to mention all the bruises and other cuts that Dean can't see. Internal bleeding is a real concern and without anyway of escape, he has to figure out a way to save them both.

"D'n?" Sam brow furrows and Dean grimaces. Disorientation could be a sign of a lot of things—none of them good. "Y'kay?"

"Fine," Dean lies calmly. "Sam, can you get up? I need you to—"

But as soon as Sam is in a seated position, he immediately slumps back to the floor, and Dean curses softly under his breath.

Neither of them is going anyways.

"Sam," Dean reaches for his brother's wrist and digs his fingernails into it, jerking Sam's eyes back open. "Sorry, you have to stay awake."

"M'tired." Sam slurs his words, the syllables colliding into each other.

"I know, but hang in there. We'll get out soon."

Liar.

He doesn't have an exit strategy and until he can move more than half an inch, the two of them are stuck here. He's gotta hope that Bobby will figure out that something has gone wrong when they miss their check-in call and that the experienced hunter will put all the pieces together.

"Stay with me, Sam." Dean manages a shaky smile, despite the worry and panic coursing through his veins. "Hey, when we get out of here, what do you think we should have for dinner? It's Christmas Eve. Gotta have something good."

"Christmas?" There's a flicker of awareness there in his little brother's gaze.

"Yeah, Sammy, Christmas." Dean forces a grin on his lips.

"We could get burgers." Sam forces his words out, trying to overcome the fog in his brain.

"Burgers would be good." Dean agrees.

"Or pizza."

"Even better."

There's silence for a few moments. The wind blows through the trees and other than Sam's heavy breathing, the night is perfectly still. Funny, how peaceful it is, just minutes after vanquishing the ghost.

"Hey, D'n?"

"Yeah?"

More silence.

"Sam?"

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sam's murky eyes blink back open.

"Y'ever think about . . ." He takes a shaky breath in. " . . . what it would be like of we just stopped hunting during Christmas?"

Dean blinks as he processes that, "Like go on vacation?"

"Yeah," Sam replies. "Like take a break. What would you want to do?"

Dean thinks about it for a few moments, trying to picture what a real Christmas would be like without hunting. What would it feel like to just relax and not worry about anything? To drink eggnog with his brother and watch cheesy Christmas movies?

"I don't know, Sam," He confesses softly. "I guess we could get a real tree and eat ham with Bobby."

"You'd make ham?" Sam's eyes widen ever so slightly.

"I guess." Dean mumbles, embarrassed. "What about you?"

"I . . ." Sam sighs softly, his gaze drifting to the moonlight streaming in through the window. "I'd just . . . want to be with you."

It's a startling admission, considering how not even two years ago, they'd celebrated Christmas two years ago in two different states. Sam had been pursing his "normal" life and Dean had been trying to fill the void that his little brother had left behind.

And now they were here, together, once again.

Bleeding out, maybe, but at least they're together.

"Hey." Dean jerks his brother, trying to force him back awake. "Come on, Sam, stay with me. What did you get me for Christmas?"

"Not telling." Sam's eyes are still closed.

"Sam, open your eyes."

Sam does so.

"S'nothing big. A new journal. One like dad's."

It's the perfect present, a thoughtful one that only his brother could've picked out.

Dean grins.

"Thanks, Sammy."

There's the sound of glass breaking downstairs and Dean tenses, wishing he knew where his gun was.

"You idjits okay?" Bobby's booming voice echoes in the dusty house and Dean can't help but chuckle.

"Up here, Bobby!"

Bobby's footsteps begin to clamber up the staircase.

"Hey, Sam?"

His little brother grins.

They'll both have to go the hospital and they'll probably spend the night laid up and the recovery process will be painful, but they're together and that's what matters.

"Merry Christmas, Sammy."

Sam just beams.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _A little more upbeat than my previous chapters, but a change of pace can be good. I hope you enjoyed! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks._


	23. Fevered

_**Author's Note:**_ _And merrily we roll along! Next prompt comes from_ _ **StrGazr04**_ _who requested, "How about Sam gets really sick maybe because they had to do a hunt in someplace like Colorado or w/e in really bad snow? He gets a terrible fever and is delirious. The last time he was this sick, Dean was missing/in Purgatory. It turns out that the time Dean was in Hell wasn't the only time Sam kept his amulet. After Dean tossed it in the trash, Sam saved it and thus still had it when Dean was in Purgatory. Now, sick with fever, Dean finds Sam in bed clutching the amulet he didn't know Sam still had." Awww, this prompt is so cute! I adore it! Please enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

" _The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches."_

― _E.E. Cummings_

* * *

There are few things that Dean will pay full price for.

He's grown up to be thrifty—credit card fraud, after all, can only last so long—and his father taught him how to stick to a budget. Buy used, save the difference, so his father would instruct. Yet, here in the middle of a freak snowstorm in Colorado, Dean would give anything to have one of those puffy, incredibly warm North Face jackets that he sees those mountain climbers use on those Everest Discovery Channel specials.

"Fucking cold." Dean barks out as he and Sam finally make it back to the cabin they were crashing in while they had hunted the wendigo terrorizing the local skiers.

"Yeah." Sam's teeth chatter as he strips out of his wet jacket and down to his soaked thermal. Moonlight streams in through the window, revealing just how badly Sam's coat kept out the snow.

"Next time we go shopping, we're getting good jackets. Like full price."

"I h-hear y-you." Sam manages to say through chattering teeth.

"Go on and take a warm shower and then change."

Sam doesn't need to be told twice. He soon disappears behind the bathroom door and Dean quickly changes into dry clothes of his own. Heading to the stove, he begins to boil some water for some of that girly tea that Sam likes. Dean may hate the taste, but it will warm them up and that's the key. A trip to the E.R. for frostbite was something that Dean is keen to prevent.

Sam emerges twenty minutes later, his hair still a little damp from the shower. His cheeks are flushed and he's sniffling a bit and Dean sighs as he reaches over and touches Sam's forehead.

"I'm fine, Dean."

Dean grimaces, "You're getting sick. Take some vitamin C, maybe we can curb this before it gets too serious."

Sam scrunches up his face in that way that he's been doing ever since he was three and had to eat something he didn't like. He's protesting without saying a word—not that Dean would listen to him when he knows he's right—but it's a small act of defiance all the same.

But Sam takes the pill and Dean relaxes and he allows himself to think that they are out of the woods.

They aren't.

* * *

Of course, true to their often shitty luck, Sam gets sick.

Really sick.

Like delirious and burning up with a fever of 104 degrees sick.

Dean, of course, would take him to the hospital if he could. 104 degrees isn't something to mess around with but the damn snow keeps falling and they're snowed in for the rest of the day at least. The best he can do is ply Sam with medicine and keep cold compresses on him. 9-1-1 is on standby in his phone, a last resort if everything goes to Hell in a hand basket, though he doubts any rescuers could get here as fast as they would be needed.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean brushes some hair out of his brother's damp forehead and applies another cold pack to his forehead. "Let me know you're not boiling up in there."

But all Sam does is mumble strings of incoherent words and all Dean wants to do is sleep—he's going on 18 hours without sleep and counting—but no, they both have to fight this or it's not good enough.

"Just hang in there."

But Sam just mumbles something about a flying piano.

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

Dean's body finally crashes at around hour 26 and when he wakes up, Sam is on fire and crying, clutching something in his hand.

"Easy, Sam, it's just me." Dean tries to calm his distressed brother, trying to get him to swallow some more medicine. "Just relax, okay?"

Sam's eyes open but they show no recognition in them. Instead, his little brother draws his knees up to his chest and continues his death grip on whatever he's holding.

"Gone, gone," Sam whispers. "Alone, no, yes. All alone—"

"You're not alone," Dean tells him softly. "Just relax, okay?"

"Dean?" Sam asks, hesitant, afraid of being proved wrong. "I saved it."

"What, Sam?"

"This." He opens his hands and Dean's breath leaves him as he gasps.

Sam has the amulet. The amulet that he threw away almost three years ago, the one regret Dean had above all the others. The one mistake he had always wished he could take back.

"Sam," He whispers, "When did you . . . ?"

"Sorry, I know you were mad," Sam babbles on, unable to gauge his older brother's concerned expression. "But when you were gone I needed something, Dean, something to prevent me from blowing my brains out and this helps."

"It's okay." Dean assures him softly, though they are going to have one hell of talk about what exactly Sam went through when Dean was gone in Purgatory. What his brother suffered, it's clear that Dean needs to address it.

"I was alone." Sam holds the amulet to his chest.

"Hey," Dean pulls his sweaty, burning brother to his chest, wrapping his arms around him. "You're not alone anymore. I'm here."

That seems to calm his brother down, enough for him to still and take his medicine.

"You won't leave?" Sam clutches at him as the drowsiness starts to overtake him.

Dean just smiles, "I'll be here."

Sam falls back to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Sam's fever is broken.

They go through their normal routine, as if nothing has changed between them, only something has. It takes the youngest Winchester a few minutes to notice it, but the amulet is back, securely being worn around Dean's neck.

"Dean?"

His brother just shrugs, "You want it back or something?" He's trying to be casual about the whole thing.

Sam shakes his head, "No, I'm good."

But inside, Sam can't help but feel relieved. The amulet is back where it belongs and it's like he can finally breathe again.

Dean is back.

His big brother is finally back.

"Hey, you want to do something for Christmas?" Dean questions.

"Like what?"

"Go to Bobby's. Relax?"

Sam grins, "Sounds good."

"Perfect."

And just like that, life goes on.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I believe there are only a few prompts left so there will probably be like 6-7 chapters at the most. I will do my best to keep you all entertained to the end. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	24. Reflections

_**Author's Note:**_ _Happy New Year! I hope 2016 will give us more awesome brotherly feels and hurt!Sam! I wish you guys all the best in the coming year._

 _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **lenail125**_ _who requested, "How about when Sam gets hurt for the first time in a hunt as a teenager? Dean wasn't with him when got hurt because Sam was with John and Dean was checking another part of the perimeter of place they were hunting. And when Sam gets hurt he only wants his brother, meanwhile John is trying to calm him down, but that only happens when Dean arrives like he always does! I like fluff and platonic cuddle with the brothers!" I love fluff and cuddles too! I don't think I've gotten to write anything with John for this entire collection so this is a wonderful change of pace. Thank you for the prompt! Let's set this when Sam is 13. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _When someone is crying, of course, the noble thing to do is to comfort them. But if someone is trying to hide their tears, it may also be noble to pretend you do not notice them."_

― _Lemony Snicket_

* * *

This is supposed to be an easy hunt.

It's Christmas Eve, after all, and John only picked this hunt on this night because he'd been sure it was a sure thing. Now though, as he tries to curb the huge amount of blood leaving Sam's shoulder, he wonders if maybe they should've stayed in tonight.

Sam is whimpering, doing his best not to cry. He's thirteen now, John knows, and he's in that awkward stage where he's not quite a boy but not quite a man. When he was little, Sam would cry at the drop of a hat. Expressive, Mary called him, more in tune with his emotions than Dean would ever be.

"It's okay, Sammy." John tries to soothe him in a gruff voice as he applies more pressure to the wound, as he does his best to ignore his son's anguished cry as the pain courses through his system, and as he tries not to let panic consume him.

After all, Sam could be bleeding out right before him.

And that terrifies John.

He's been called a lot of things—absentee father by the schools he sends his sons to, a bastard by the hunting community, even a jerk on a few occasions when Sam has lost his temper—but he's never considered himself a bad dad. He loves his sons—loves them more than life itself—and though he chose this life for them, he never considered the fact that it might take them from him. He'd just always assumed that he would die first and not Sam or Dean. In hindsight, he knows that's a foolish assumption.

Even so, John didn't start hunting to watch his youngest bleed out against the dirty wall of a haunted mansion.

"Dad," Sam whimpers, his eyes rimmed with tears and it nearly breaks the gruff hunter's heart. "Hurts."

"I know," John manages a shaky smile, trying to keep Sam in the dark about how bad the wound is, but his youngest is smart. Even through the fog of blood loss, he's already done the math. "We're going to get you out of here, get you patched up—"

Sam isn't buying it though.

His whimpers turn into full on sobs and John cringes as his son moves his shoulder, causing more blood to well up.

"Hold still, Sammy." John presses harder on it, forces himself to stay still and focus on one thing at a time.

How did things get so fucked up?

They'd done the research, showed up and vanquished the ghost only for her to get one last kick of energy, enough to throw an antique dagger into his son's shoulder. Then, as she was fading away, the bitch had waved her hand and removed it.

Hence, all the blood.

"Dean." Sam's skin is starting to become ashen in color and clammy to the touch, both hallmark signs of shock. His eyes keep fluttering and it's taking him longer for them to open.

"He's coming," John tries to assure his youngest. "He's coming, Sammy."

"M'scared." Sam's gaze meets his and for a second, it feels like the whole world fades away.

The mysterious demon that killed his wife isn't worth tracking.

The fact that his heart aches every day for his wife doesn't matter.

Sam, in pain, dying before him, is what matters. His whole world is condensed into those soulful hazel eyes looking up at him, clouded by tears.

"D'n." Sam's syllables collide together, distorting his words but John catches their meaning.

"He's getting the car, Sam," John tells him softly. "He'll be here."

Immediately after Sam went down, John had barked at his older son to check the perimeter and then fetch the car. Dean had, after a few moments, complied with the orders, allowing instinct to take charge instead of fear.

But now—

No, John can't think that way.

Sam will get help.

Sam will live.

He has to.

Sam's eyes flutter close and immediately, his body goes lax.

"Damn it, Sam," John curses, gritting his teeth as he prepares for what he has to do. He jabs a fist into Sam's wound and the pain instantly jolts the youngest Winchester back to awareness. "Easy, breathe, okay? No going to sleep just yet—"

But Sam is too out of it and panicked to listen. He begins to try and push himself away from the wall, aggravating his wound.

"Sam, no," John tries to order him, holding him still. "You can't move just yet, okay?"

"Dean!" Sam cries, sobbing now and John pulls his youngest to him and holds him, trying to be somewhat of the parent that he had hoped to be when Mary had announced she was pregnant again.

Funny, back then; he had so many hopes and dreams for his sons. For Sam, he wanted his boy to grow up and go to college and become some hotshot lawyer or a doctor. Something noble, like that. Dean, on the other hand, he knew Dean could be a great mechanic or even a sports star. But now, neither of them would become those things because of choices he had made for them.

And now, they are both destined to hunt.

What kind of legacy is that to leave to your children?

"I'm so sorry." John whispers, but he knows his son can't hear him over his own sobbing. So, John does what he can do—just holds his crying son and hopes for help.

"Sammy!"

"Dean!"

Immediately, John relinquishes his hold as Sam reaches for his older brother. Instantly, Sam is breathing better, as if just the touch of his older brother is a magic band-aid, healing almost everything.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean assures him. "Hold on, we're going to get you fixed up. Then, tell you what? I'll even let you watch those girly Lifetime movies you like when we get back to the motel."

"Kay." Sam whispers, allowing himself to be picked up and held by his brother.

"I've got you." Dean whispers and John finds himself taking the car keys and following Dean out the door.

Sam will go to the hospital and he'll get pumped with blood and some stiches. Dean won't leave his baby brother's side. The bond the two of them have . . . it's something that John can't quite describe.

John just can't compete.

So, maybe he's failed as a father. Maybe it's not too late to fix things. Who knows really?

But right now, watching Dean secure his brother in the back seat, John knows that all those two need in the world is each other.

Not John.

Never John.

"Okay," He gets into the driver's seat, glancing in the rearview mirror, seeing Sam's head in Dean's lap. "Let's go."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I know a lot of people hate John. I find him a tragic character. I mean, he lost out on being a father to two sons because of some misguided choices he made. I think that's kind of what I wanted to convey in this chapter. Sorry if it was too much of a downer! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	25. Slip

_**Author's Note:**_ _So just a heads up that after this chapter there will be three chapters left (2 requests and 1 closing chapter of my choosing) and I just want to thank you all for your support. For some reason, reviews aren't showing up anymore (I think it's a glitch or a bug and hopefully it gets fixed soon) but I read every single review and I do appreciate them!_

 _So, let's finish this off right! The next prompt comes from_ _ **jack62192**_ _who requested, "How about Sam getting hurt in the head? Fell out of a snow filled tree while hunting...or got thrown into it...idk...maybe him slipping on something." One concussed Sam coming up! Let's set this back in good old season one. Thank you for the prompt!_

* * *

" _Life is only a flicker of melted ice."_

― _Dejan Stojanovic_

* * *

Here's the thing—sometimes, their greatest enemy is their own human nature.

Case in point: while chasing after his older brother who was, in turn, chasing after the snow fairy—and yes, you read that right, a snow fairy—Sam finds himself skidding on the ice and before he knows it, he collides into a tree that seemingly appears from nowhere.

Snow quickly falls from the tree, jarred from the force of the impact and along with the pain radiating from his skull, he soon finds himself suddenly freezing, his teeth chattering.

He tries to force himself back on his feet, but the world spins around him, disorienting him and he soon finds himself back on the ground. His stomach clenches as nausea rolls through him. He's never been good at handling dizziness and this is no exception.

"Easy." A voice whispers as light as the wind.

He blinks a few times and tries to focus his vision.

"Jessica?" He slurs because he's squinting because of how bright the sun has gotten, which is probably a warning sign in itself, but from what he can make out, there is a beautiful blonde kneeling before him, in an ivory dress.

She smiles softly, her violet eyes shining, "No, hunter." She places a creamy hand on his face and he almost jerks back from the sheer cold that is emanating from her skin.

"F-fairy." He stammers.

"Indeed," She tells him, her peach lips titling upwards in a grin. "You are hurt."

"My b-brother." He starts, but she chuckles, the sound like wind chimes.

"He chases after an illusion," She states. "But he shall return soon." Brows furrowing, she adds, "You're injured."

He doesn't say anything.

"Ice can be cruel," She comments, glancing upwards at the tree, "But it is not unfeeling, unlike what some people think." She narrows her gaze. "Unlike what you hunters think."

He tries to think back as to why he and Dean are hunting the snow fairies in the first place. There had been frozen bodies of young girls popping up in the forest and then . . . ?

His head hurt too much to think about it.

"Rest," She soothes him, placing her hand on top of his head, the pain slowly dissipating under her careful touch. "We mean you no harm, Sam Winchester."

His gaze widens.

"Yes, I know you." She winks at him. "Your father tried to hunt us once, many years ago. He came to his senses."

The pain is gone now, replaced by lethargy. He shouldn't sleep though, not if he has a concussion, but he is so, so tired and he just wants to close his eyes.

"Rest," The fairy commands him softly. "I shall stay with you."

So, he closes his eyes.

* * *

"Sammy?"

He awakes, sometime later, to his brother's concerned green eyes.

"Dean." He manages to say and then, suddenly, he realizes the pain is gone. He feels the back of his head, looking for a bump or something, but there is nothing there. "What happened?"

"That's my line," His brother retorts dryly. "One second I'm chasing a fairy, the next thing I know, I'm back here and you're unconscious."

Sam's brows furrow as he tries to put the pieces together.

 _We mean you no harm, Sam Winchester._

"A snow fairy," He states quietly, "She came to me after I hit my head—"

"Wait," Dean interjects, placing a strong hand on his shoulder. "You hit your head? How bad? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Sam assures him with a grin. "Because she healed me?"

Dean gawks, "She . . . what?"

"She said she knew Dad too."

"No, seriously, what the hell? First, she heals you and then she just says that she knows Dad?"

"She didn't mean us any harm, Dean." Sam tells his brother quietly.

"Yeah? And you know that how?" Dean scoffs.

"Because she could've killed me right here," Sam insists, as he pushes himself off the ground. His legs are shaky, but he soon steadies himself and faces his brother. "I think we're tracking the wrong thing."

"Me too," Dean admits quietly. "You think we need to make an offering or something?"

Sam glances around the glade and then back at the tree he collided into. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small, sparkly, blue marble and places it in the snow.

"You think that'll be enough?" Dean questions and Sam nods his head.

"That and the fact that we won't hunt them anymore."

"Sounds good."

They begin to walk towards the car.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Fine."

"I still want to check out your head when we get back to the motel."

Sam just laughs, having been expecting just that.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Three more chapters to go! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	26. Amends

_**Author's Note:**_ _Second to last request coming up from_ _ **Jeanny**_ _who requested, "My prompt is a little S6 one: Sam was soulless at Christmas, so Dean doesn't bother trying to celebrate. Sam finds out afterwards (probably Cas) and goes to Bobby for help putting together a much belated Christmas, but Bobby is still having a hard time dealing with Sam trying to kill him. Bobby is avoiding him and Dean's not there (supposed to be a surprise after all) so when Sam gets hurt there's no one around to help . . . cue the hurt and later all the feels!" I love feels! And I love Sam and Bobby bonding! Let's do this. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _I've got a bad case of the 3:00 am guilts—you know, when you lie in bed awake and replay all those things you didn't do right? Because, as we all know, nothing solves insomnia like a nice warm glass of regret, depression and self-loathing."_

― _D.D. Barant_

* * *

"Wait, what?"

Castiel's gaze darts to the floor and the angel shifts on his feet, disconcerted.

"Sam, I . . ." His voice fades and his phrase turns into a rough sigh.

"I mean, I just never thought about that." Sam runs a hand through his hair and grimaces. Leaning back in the kitchen chair, the youngest Winchester tries to recount the days in his mind and he supposes that yes, December has come and gone really without him processing it.

After all, he was soulless.

"Sam, you shouldn't blame—" The angel starts and Sam rises from the table, effectively silencing him.

"Cas, just don't."

There's a lot Sam blames himself for. Losing himself to his addiction, starting the apocalypse and now, the actions he did while he was soulless. Sure, maybe there's a distinction—like Dean insists—but to Sam, he's just as a guilty as his evil doppelganger.

He has to make amends.

Somehow, someway, he will.

"Sam," Castiel asks as the youngest Winchester reaches for the notepad to jot a note down to his older brother. "What are you doing?"

"Setting things right."

It's the least he can do after all.

* * *

"Sam." Bobby greets him curtly at the door, barely holding it open wide enough for the younger hunter to pass through easily.

"Hey, Bobby." Sam plasters a smile on his lips, trying to find his place back in a world that doesn't make sense to him. Before he went to Hell, Bobby loved him like a father and Sam viewed him as such. Now, Bobby comes across as more of that cold, gruff hunter that he was viewed upon by the general hunting population.

But then again, the reason for this change is Sam.

Sam did try to kill him after all. Soulless or not, he doesn't think that gives someone a free pass.

"You okay?" Bobby finally manages to ask and Sam quickly nods his head. Gesturing to the big box in Sam's hands, he adds, "What's this?"

"Christmas." Sam answers, grinning from ear to ear.

"Christmas?" Bobby echoes, obviously taken aback by the response. "Christmas was months ago."

"Yeah, well," Sam shifts his stance, uncomfortable. Then, forcing himself to make eye contact, he explains, "I was soulless . . . back then."

He can tell from the quick way Bobby's lips twitch and the older hunter tenses for a moment that yes, Bobby recalls that fact.

"Anyways," Sam continues, trying to keep things upbeat. "I thought maybe we could do Christmas here again," At Bobby's perplexed expression, he quickly plasters on, "I mean, if that's okay."

"It's fine." Bobby finally acquiesces. "Come in."

He doesn't wait for Sam to close the door behind him before the gruff hunter slams the door to his study.

Though the rejection stings, Sam does his best to keep things in perspective. Right now, he needs to make amends and making amends means throwing an awesome post-Christmas party for both Bobby and his brother.

And maybe, if he can pulls this off, their shattered family can start to piece themselves back together again.

* * *

 _"You're planning something."_ Dean accuses him and Sam tries to suppress a chuckle as he adjusts the phone while glancing at the various cakes in the bakery of the local supermarket.

"Maybe." Sam teases softly.

 _"You going to let me know then so I can come up there?"_ Dean questions. _"I mean, you and Bobby . . ."_

"We're getting along well." Sam lies because the truth is, he hasn't seen hide or hair of the older hunter since arriving at the salvage yard, almost two days ago.

 _"Liar."_

"It's just . . . hard." The younger brother confesses softly.

 _"I know."_

"I'm trying, Dean." He tries to keep his gaze focused on the cakes, but his vision blurs. He clears his throat and tries to get a grip on his spiraling emotions.

 _"He still loves you, Sam,"_ Dean admits, quite candidly. _"You just know how damn stubborn he can be. Just like a certain someone I know."_ He can picture the smile on Dean's face and it makes him grin in turn.

"Come tomorrow."

 _"Better be a good surprise, Sammy."_

Sam beams, "It will be."

* * *

So, he decorates the house and finds a tree, which isn't that quite weird when you consider these trees do grow year round, and by the time night comes, Bobby's house looks like the perfect Christmas house you see in those Hallmark movies.

Sam's proud of it.

It may feel like spring outside, but here, inside this house, it's Christmas.

And hopefully, the magic of Christmas will be enough to heal the damage he's caused.

* * *

It's while Bobby is out getting milk and Dean is on his way that it happens.

Really, it's stupid actually. An ornament shatters; the glass going everywhere and he only feels it after he picks up the glass and it cuts him. Blood drips on the wooden floor and Sam freezes, seemingly rooted in spot, as it consumes him.

Searing heat. Dizziness. Severe pain.

A curse.

Someone cursed this ornament.

"Shit." Sam swears because yes, this is bad and no, he doesn't know how he ended up with a cursed ornament considering he bought them at the local thrift store, but all he knows is he's in trouble.

He can feel his lungs constricting, his air supply dwindling. The room around him spins and he sinks to his knees. His brain screams for him to move and get help and do something, but his body is broken.

"Sam?"

Bobby is suddenly there, at his side, gripping his shoulder and holding him upright.

"B-Bobby." Sam wheezes and he tries, feebly, to gesture to the ornament, but he isn't really able to move anymore.

"I've got you," Bobby assures him and Sam can see the gears working in the older hunter's brain. "You see a hex bag?"

"No."

"Okay, just hold on, stay with me."

Sam has no choice but to sink to the floor, the paralysis now fully consuming him. His eyes burn and he wants nothing more than to fade away into blissful unconsciousness but part of him knows he can't.

"Balls!" Bobby is tearing apart his perfect Christmas home and part of Sam wants to laugh hysterically at this. All of his hard work, only to be destroyed by something he accidentally caused.

Now, he's dying because of it.

"Sam, stay with me!"

But Sam's eyes have already drifted shut.

"Sam!"

That's when he falls into the welcoming dark abyss.

* * *

He comes to in a strange hospital bed with an I.V. hooked into his arm.

"Hey." Dean stands in the open doorway, dark circles under his eyes, but a lazy grin on his lips. "You back with us now?"

"Back?" Sam murmurs, his voice dry.

His brother is sporting five o'clock shadow, which gives Sam an indication just how long he's been in this hospital bed and how touch and go it's been.

"Your heart stopped a few times on the way here." He tosses it out so casually that one could mistake it for indifference.

It's not, plain and simple.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Dean takes a seat in the well-worn leather chair next to the bed. Grabbing his brother's hand, Dean beams.

"Where's Bobby?"

"Here." Bobby stands in the open doorway, kindness sparkling in his eyes, something Sam hasn't seen since before the whole soulless thing. The gruff hunter comes to stand next to Dean. "How you doing, kid?" He places a hand on Sam's shoulder and the youngest Winchester grins.

"I'm good, Bobby."

"I'm glad, Sam."

It's the closest thing to an apology that Sam will be able to get from the older hunter right now. Sure, Sam still wants to talk about it, but Bobby's never been the one to believe in words.

No, like Dean, he shows his love through his actions.

"We, uh, got you something." Bobby produces a wrapped present from seemingly nowhere and hands it to Sam.

"Merry Christmas." Dean tacks on with a wry grin.

Sam tears off the wrapping paper to find a leather bound copy of Shakespeare's collected works.

"Dude, really?" Sam smirks at his brother.

"I may not understand that crap, but you like it, don't you?"

"I love it."

Bobby grins, the first real grin in a long time, "Good."

Thought it may not be the belated Christmas he imagined, Sam can't help but feel like this is how it's supposed to be. His family is with him and the threat of whatever witch that cursed him is gone—he would have to ask about that later—and this is all he needs.

Dean, Bobby and Cas too—they're family and whom he fights to protect.

He loves them, after all.

"So," Dean nudges him. "You happy?"

Sam just pulls the book closer to him, "Yes."

"Good." Bobby murmurs his assent.

And it's perfect.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I love writing Sam and Bobby family feels! Seriously, I wanted way more of those on the show. Anyways, two more chapters! I'll be honest, I'm going to miss writing this series. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	27. Flash

_**Author's Note:**_ _So, good news, bad news? Bad news: I miscounted and yesterday was the last prompt. Good news: I'm still doing two more chapters, but they both will be author's choice. Let's get started, shall we?_

 _Now, I'm not sure if a lot of you know this, but I'm a huge Sam/Castiel friendship fluff fan. I have a whole collection of stories dealing with their friendship. And this time around, I noticed Castiel kind of got left out in the cold. So, let's put him front in center and have him take care of Sam, shall we? Let's set this season five. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _If I got rid of my demons, I'd lose my angels."_

― _Tennessee Williams_

* * *

On the sidewalk in front of the Winchester's motel room, the formerly obedient angel knows as Castiel stands out in the cold. Snow drifts down around him, swaying softly in the biting wind. It's December where they are, almost two weeks until Christmas, a time for jubilation.

Yet, all Castiel feels is dread.

The Apocalypse is nigh.

It's funny, in Heaven, back before he met the Winchesters, Castiel would've allowed the Apocalypse to happen. He would've been glad to do it. After all, it would be such an honor to serve as an instrument for their Father's grand plan in any capacity.

But now, here he is—a rebellious, fallen angel.

A traitor to his own kind.

What does his Father think of him now?

He shivers involuntarily as a particular gust of wind blows past him. He doesn't have as much grace now to keep his vessel strong and slowly, there are cracks forming in his façade. He's growing weaker by the day and soon, he'll be nothing more than a shell of his former self.

"Cas?" Sam stands in the doorway of the motel room, rubbing at his eyes. "What are you doing?" His voice is still thick with sleep and judging from his lowered voice, the angel supposes that Dean is still sleeping.

They both need the rest though. That's why Castiel is here, standing guard, trying to offer as much protection as someone in his fractured state can provide.

"It's snowing." Castiel states, gesturing vaguely to the floating white specs falling from the sky.

"Yeah." Sam remarks, a smirk on his lips. Closing the door behind him, the youngest Winchester comes to stand by his side. "Come inside. It's freezing."

". . . it's Christmas time." Castiel murmurs, ducking his head, somewhat embarrassed.

"Yeah?" Sam is now shoulder to shoulder with him now and the angel smiles somewhat, reassured by the physical contact.

It used to astound him how much humans needed physical contact. From mothers cradling babies, to children walking hand in hand—every one of his Father's creations needed to feel connected to their own kind at all times.

Now, he can understand why. It's comforting. It makes him feel like he isn't completely alone in the universe.

"I just . . ." He doesn't know what he's trying to convey. The sheer grief he feels as his powers fade slowly day after day. The fear that he tries to hide that he'll never be able to help the stop the mess that he created.

"I know." Sam places a hand on Castiel's back. They stand there in silence for a few moments before Sam adds, "Now, come on inside. It's too cold for you to stand out here all night."

Castiel relents.

* * *

"And you're sure you'll be okay with—?" Dean stands in the doorway of the motel room, the Impala's keys dangling from his fingers, a concerned gaze locking onto the angel's eyes.

"I'm not a kid, Dean." Sam calls from the kitchen table, glancing up from his laptop. "Besides, you'll only be gone for three days. Bobby needs you more than we do."

"But Sam—"

"I will keep him safe." Castiel tells the eldest Winchester firmly.

"I'm not three," Sam remarks sarcastically. Then softly, "But yeah, we'll be fine."

Dean waits a long time before replying, "Okay."

"I'll call." Sam assures him.

"You better." Dean retorts.

"Go," Castiel commands quietly. "Bobby is waiting."

"Right." Dean nods his head and then he's out the door.

The Castiel of the past would've never willingly guarded humans. He used to view them as fragile, wasteful creatures. Now though, after seeing the bond between Sam and Dean, experiencing so many different emotions and experiences with them, he views humanity more with love.

Protecting Sam from anything that may come is an honor.

Because Sam is, after all, his friend.

* * *

The first day, nothing out of the ordinary happens.

Sam researches and Castiel watches TV. They mostly sit in silence, but when Sam breaks for lunch, the two of them head to a restaurant around the corner and they talk about random things.

"What would you want for Christmas?" Sam asks in-between bites of his salad.

"Me?" The angel echoes.

"Yeah, you." Sam replies with a smirk. "C'mon, if you had your pick of anything in the world, what would you ask for?"

"I . . . I do not know." He's never received presents before nor given thought to giving them.

"Here." Sam pushes a small bundle of red wrapping paper into his field of vision.

Castiel blinks.

"It's a present," The youngest Winchester states. "From Dean and I."

He doesn't comprehend.

"Open it." Sam instructs him and almost robotically, the angel opens the present, revealing a small metal charm.

He picks it up and inspects it, making out a faint pattern that he recognizes to be the anti-possession symbol.

"It might not be of much use to you," Sam tacks on softly, "But Dean and I figured that—"

"Thank you, Sam." Castiel interrupts, overcome by some foreign emotion. It wells up within him and smothers his voice. He wants to laugh and cry at the same time. He wants to say something profound to express his gratitude.

He settles instead for reaching for Sam's hand and squeezing it firmly, letting his actions convey what his words cannot express.

Sam just grins.

* * *

It happens in a flash.

One second, he is walking side by side with Sam back to the motel and the next, there is a loud bang and then Sam is down on the ground, bleeding profusely from his chest.

Sam's been shot, Castiel processes a moment too slow.

"Sam!" He grips the youngest Winchester and tries to straighten him out, attempting to assess the full extent of the damage. The shooter—whoever it was—is long gone and some panicked bystanders are hurriedly talking into their phones, calling for help, he hopes.

"Sam, stay with me." Castiel wills his grace to work, to close the wound and stop the blood, but nothing is working and he feels so useless. What kind of angel is he if he can't even save one of his friends?

Sam's eyes keep fluttering and if he goes to sleep now, Castiel knows it will be all over.

"Sam, stay with me!" The angel commands, raising his voice and trying to will Sam's body into avoiding going into shock.

"S'okay, Cas." Sam manages to gasp, but it's not okay, this will never be okay.

He needs to save Sam.

 _Please, Father, if you can hear me, please let me save him._

It's a desperate plea to an absentee father. Maybe it works. Maybe it's just a coincidence, but at that very moment, his grace kicks in and the angel whisks Sam away into their motel room where he heals the room without any humans watching him.

Sam remains unconscious after, but the wound is closed and the blood loss has stopped. That's all he can do and Castiel just hopes it will be enough.

It needs to be enough.

* * *

He watches over Sam through the night, rousing him for mental checks and making sure that the wound doesn't reappear or start bleeding spontaneously.

It doesn't.

Sam sleeps, Castiel frets.

The angel calls Dean only to leave a rambling voicemail about how Sam was shot, but he's okay now, Castiel thinks.

"Sam?"

The youngest Winchester stirs from the bed and soon, murky hazel eyes meet his.

"Sam, are you well?"

"M'good, Cas." Sam manages to say through slurred words.

Castiel doesn't know what to say, so he settles from grinning instead.

This is one of the reasons why he chose to rebel. A broken little boy doomed to be the vessel for the Devil and yet, chose to believe he could overcome it. He'd learned much about Sam Winchester since he first met him. He went from an abomination to a friend, in the angel's eyes.

"I'm glad, Sam."

Castiel just grins.

It's almost Christmas, a time for rebirth and joy.

For the fallen angel and the vessel of the Devil, it's a time to take stock and re-evaluate what they want in their lives.

For Castiel, being by Sam and Dean's sides, is what he wants.

And right now, there's no place he'd rather be.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _So, just to recap, one more chapter and then that's a wrap on this year's edition! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	28. Together

_**Author's Note:**_ _Well, this is it. This is the very last chapter of the "3_ _rd_ _Annual 25 Days of Hurt!Sam" and I'll admit, I'm sad to see it end. Granted, sometimes writing everyday for this collection was tiring, but all the prompts were so interesting! Really, they pushed into writing stories I would've never done on my own._

 _I would like to take a moment to thank all of you for your kind reviews! To those of you reviewed chapter after chapter, thank you! To all those who favorite it/followed it, thank you for your support! Seriously, without all of you cheering me on, there's no way I would've been able to finish this in a timely manner._

 _So, what comes next? Well, I have a lot of stories in-progress (hurt!Sam ones, naturally) so I will be heading back to work on those. Next year in November, prompts will open for the 4_ _th_ _edition of this collection. I hope you all with continue with me on this journey to hurt!Sam feels, but if not, thank you all for your continued support!_

 _And without further ado, the last chapter. This is set post "LARP and the Real Girl". Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me—anything can happen, child. Anything can be."_

― _Shel Silverstein_

* * *

"So, you'll come, won't you?"

Sam may own the title for best puppy dog eyes, but Charlie is giving him a run for his money. In fact, if he's not mistaken, the redhead has even managed to get some tears welling up in her eyes, a skill that Sam hasn't quite gotten down yet. It's an impressive display from the girl who had somehow become their surrogate sister and Sam can't help but admire her for it.

"A winter ball?" Dean repeats, drawing out the syllables, his brow wrinkling somewhat in disgust. "With dancing?"

"And food!" Charlie interjects quickly. "Lots of food! Like burgers and fries and just general greasy things you like."

Dean narrows his gaze, "Why do I get the feeling that you're just saying that—?"

Charlie reaches across the bunker's table to grab Dean's hands within her own. Her voice rises, "Please, please, say you'll come!" She glances at the youngest Winchester who smirks.

"I think it would be fun, Dean." He tells his older brother.

"Of course you do," Dean retorts, "You just wanna play dress up."

"No, that's what you want to do." Sam replies calmly.

Dean glares.

"So," Charlie's gaze nervously darts between them. "You'll come?"

It takes Dean a small eternity to reply, "Yeah, sure."

Charlie screams in joy and quickly rises from her chair to rush to Dean and throw her arms around the eldest Winchester. Then, almost in a flash, she does the same to Sam and the youngest Winchester can't help but laugh.

"So, a winter ball?" Sam starts when Charlie is seated again.

"It'll be great!" Charlie exclaims, beaming.

"Should we get dressed up?" Dean finally asks and Charlie grins widely, like the cat that caught the canary.

"Oh, don't worry," She assures them. "I have the perfect costumes for both of you."

"You knew we'd say yes." Sam deduces.

Charlie winks as she gets up from the chair, her keys dangling from her fingers, "C'mon Sam, you two couldn't tell me no even if you wanted to." She means it as a joke, but it's true. She's part of their family and there's nothing they wouldn't do for family.

"No." Dean meets her gaze.

"Oh shut up," She punches him lightly in the shoulder. "It's too late already. Now, just stay put."

With that, she quickly scurries out of the room and Sam glances at his brother.

Dean just shrugs, "Better than staying home, right?"

Sam smiles, "Yeah."

"Then, we'll go."

"Sounds good."

And that's that really.

* * *

Charlie gets them knight costumes, similar to what Dean wore the last they went LARP-ing with her, only this time the material is much softer to the touch and of higher quality. Dean's outfit is navy with white accents and it fits him well, leaving Sam to wonder just how Charlie got his measurements.

Sam's fits him like a glove and is a dark hunter green with brown accents. As he glances at himself in the mirror, he can't really believe their doing this. During December, they usually tried to immerse themselves in hunting. Christmastime brought up old, painful memories of their lives before all the trauma and tragedy that had engulfed them and so, hunting served as an escape.

"You look great, Samantha." Dean calls from across the room and Sam sighs as he faces his older brother.

"Yeah, I saw you checking yourself out too, Mr. Knight."

"Oh, come on," His older brother scoffs, "Look, Charlie just wanted to make us knights."

"After you asked her to," Sam points out with a smirk. "I saw your texts. You were sick of being called her handmaiden."

"Shut up, Sam."

Sam chuckles.

"Now, c'mon, we're late enough as it is." Dean reaches for the car keys. "I mean, I don't think she could actually execute us, but you never know."

"Right," Sam pictures himself being sentenced to the stocks and quickly follows his brother towards to the door. "Best not to keep her Majesty waiting."

Dean just laughs.

* * *

The first sign that something is wrong is the fact that despite all the cars parked in the parking lot, there's no one visible as they walk towards where the LARPers have set up the festivities for the night. Music is blaring but there's no laughter on the wind, no sign that anyone is even here.

"Is it over?" Sam questions, but unease settles within him as they move closer and closer to where the giant tent is.

"It shouldn't be." Dean replies, voice tense.

"Something's wrong." Sam concludes softly, wishing it wasn't true.

"I know." Dean answers. "Let's find Charlie."

That doesn't take long.

They find Charlie in a pool of blood, slumped over in her throne.

For a second, Sam can't process it. He pictures her as she was just a few days ago in their bunker, smiling, laughing and teasing them. The denial takes root in him, freezes him in his tracks. This can't be happening, his mind thinks, this is supposed to be a party.

"Charlie!" It's Dean's anguished cry that breaks him out of his trance and together, the two run over to her, gently pulling her out of the throne. There's blood staining her cream gown crimson and the flowers in her hair are askew. She has defensive marks on her wrist and multiple stab wounds.

"Charlie, c'mon." Sam tries to figure out where the bleeding is coming from, but it's too much. He can't pinpoint the source and as such, he doesn't know how to effectively treat it. "Dean, we need to get her to a hospital."

"Not enough time if we don't get her stabilized." Dean tells him, taking off the outer layer of his shirt and beginning to rip it into patches. "We need to stop the bleeding."

"I'm afraid that won't be necessary."

A woman with flowing red locks and Charlie's bloodstained crown upon her head steps towards them. Her flowing green gown is something out of the middle ages and her ruby red lips smile sinisterly.

"Surely," She begins darkly, "You've heard of a coup d'état?"

Sam puts himself in front of Charlie's limp form and he can feel Dean at his back, ready to back him up should a fight begin.

"And you are?" Sam asks sharply.

The woman laughs, "You may address me as Her Royal Majesty, Queen Marian."

"And what are you Marian?" Dean retorts. "Not human."

"Obviously," Marian replies, "But then again I'd expect no less from the famed Winchesters." She sees Charlie's limp form and glares. "But this actually has nothing to do with you two. I wanted the Kingdom so I took it, plain and simple."

"It's not even real!" Dean growls and Marian chuckles darkly.

"Oh, but it's real enough," She snaps her fingers and suddenly, everyone missing from the party starts to appear, all dressed perfectly in period clothing. Knights with suits of armor, ladies with flowing dresses, even monks—they all begin to mill about the park. "See boys, I'm going to be Queen. I will finally be what I've wished for."

"Witch." Dean hisses.

"You say that like it's a bad thing." She winks. With a flick of her wrist, Charlie is floating towards her and with the push of her hand, Sam finds himself being magically pushed until his back hits a cement wall. "Don't worry about Charlie here. I'll take good care of her."

"Wait!" Sam shouts, but it's too late.

Marion and Charlie vanish in a cloud of smoke and Sam finds himself chained to the wall. A prison cell is soon, magically, constructed and as Sam struggles against his bonds, he meets his brother's panicked gaze.

"We need to get out of here," Dean tells him, "Charlie doesn't have much time."

"That witch has completely lost it," Sam muses, "She's built a whole functioning feudal system. I mean, I bet there's a castle out there and serfs and—"

"Focus, Sam!" Dean interjects sharply.

"I've got a lock pick."

"Good. Can you get out?"

"Give me a second."

It takes some careful maneuvering on his part, but soon one of his wrists is free and that's all he needs to get out of the chains. Moving to his brother, he quickly releases him as well.

"We need a plan."

"Storm the castle." Dean suggests.

"We need weapons."

"Find a blacksmith." Sam's eyes widen and Dean tacks on, "I do know some things, Sam."

"I wasn't saying you didn't. I'm just surprised. Medieval history doesn't seem like your thing."

Dean doesn't say anything.

"We need to get to Charlie."

Sam nods his head. That's all that matters right now. Charlie is slowly bleeding out and if the witch's mental state is any indication, she'd probably be brought back from the brink only to be tortured over and over again.

They have to save her.

"Okay then, weapons and then we storm the castle."

Sam doesn't miss the slightly excited sparkle that enters into his brother's eyes.

"Charlie's going to hate the part where she was a damsel in distress."

"That's what she gets for dragging us to a winter ball."

"Fair enough."

And with that, they sneak out past the guards and head towards the magical replication of a typical medieval town.

* * *

Storming the castle is easier than they had thought it would be.

The guards outside may be dressed as knights, but they're still hapless LARPers when it comes to their skill set, so he and Dean are easily able to knock them unconscious. Armed with swords of their own, they sneak down the long, twisting corridors until they emerge in the throne room.

"So, you came." Marian sits on the golden throne, her crown glistening with jewels. As she stands up, Sam and Dean raise their swords and she smirks, "Cute."

"Stop this!" Dean commands, but it's fallen on deaf ears.

"You dare to order a queen!" She raises her voice, shouting loud enough so that it echoes in the chamber. "Guards!"

More knights appear and Sam thanks his father for actually making him learn how to wield a sword. At the time, the youngest Winchester had viewed it as a waste of time, but now, as he parries the knight's attacks and follows up with his own, he's grateful that he has these skills to fall back upon.

"Sam!" Dean shouts, creating an opening in the attacks for him to get a clear shot to take on Marian.

"Right!"

He rushes towards the throne and without any hesitation, thrusts the sword into her stomach.

She gasps as she staggers back, clearly having not expected this. Blood dribbles down her lips and she looks up at Sam with a mixture of helplessness and anger.

"You . . . jerk." She huffs out and then before Sam can process what's going on, she's gripping his wrist and it feels like her skin is on fire, scalding him.

It's a death spell, he realizes a second too late—the witch using the last of her abilities and life force to channel a stronger than usual spell. As her lifeless eyes finally fall shut and her grip is released, Sam can already feel the spell taking root within him.

He begins to cough, the air around him suddenly thick and syrupy. He tries to keep himself upright, but his knees buckles and suddenly, his brother is there, holding him upright.

"Sammy!" Dean roars, trying to find the source of the problem, but there isn't one and the witch is dead so the spell has to run its course. "Sam, stay with me!"

Sam wants to say something comforting. He wants to ask about Charlie. He wants to apologize to his brother for all the little mistakes that led up to the Stanford debacle and maybe, if he can find the right words, convey just how much he loves Dean.

Because they never say that enough.

They are never ones to express how they feel in words. Actions speak louder sure, but sometimes, it's nice to hear how someone feels. Especially from Dean, who's always been more guarded with his emotions and rarely speaks from his heart for fear of it being "too girly".

"Sammy, don't close your eyes!"

Dean's scared; Sam can see that in his red-rimmed eyes. So, he reaches out and enlaces his fingers with his brother's hand.

"S'kay, D'n."

It's not though.

But he doesn't have the energy to stick around so he just lets go.

Darkness.

* * *

The first thing he registers as he returns back to consciousness is the sound of steady beeping.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice is rough and dry, almost as if he'd been screaming for hours. "You with me?"

Pain dimly echoes in every part of his body, but Sam forces himself to open his eyes.

"D'n?" His throat is parched and it feels like his tongue is two sizes too big for his mouth.

"Here." Dean carefully helps him drink from a cup and Sam savors the cool liquid as it runs through him. "Anything hurt?"

"Not really." He's probably medicated up to his gills and while it's annoying to have that foggy feeling, he can't help but be glad he doesn't feel anything too severe, unlike Charlie—

Oh, God, Charlie!

He forgot about her.

"It's okay," Dean says as if he can read his little brother's mind, which may be a super power of his over the years. "Charlie's not in the ICU anymore. They moved her a few days ago. She's okay, Sam."

"Good." Sam lets his head roll to the side, exhausted from the effort. "Witch?"

"Dead as a doornail," Dean reports dutifully, "Though she gave you one heck of a curse." Then with a small grin adds, "But it's passed. Your fever broke a few hours ago and you've been doing great. The doctors can't explain your miraculous recovery."

Sam chuckles dryly.

"You scared me." Dean admits softly.

Sam places his palm upwards on the bed and instantly, Dean's hand holds it.

"M'okay."

"Yeah, Sam, you are."

Together, they sit in the silence, savoring each other's company. There will be trials in the future for sure, but as long as they're together, they can handle anything.

Together, they're unstoppable.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _And that's a wrap! I hope you guys enjoyed it as much as I loved writing it. Please review if you have a chance! Thanks!_


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